


What to Expect

by jynzandtonic



Category: Adam Driver Character Universe, Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BABY DADDY SACKLER AU, BABY DADDY SACKLER AU!!!, Because it's me, Breeding, Cock Warming, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Failed Pregnancy Attempt, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gendered Pet Names, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, I repeat, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Reader has a regular menstruation cycle which is a fucking joke imho lolz, Requited Love, Rough Sex, She/her pronouns, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, also kind of..., idiots to lovers, this will be a pregnancy fic so y'all should know that right away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynzandtonic/pseuds/jynzandtonic
Summary: ················································Of course, I'll make sure this fic is well-tagged, but I do want to reiterate that reader gets pregnant (and actively wants to get pregnant) in this fic. If that's not your cupp'a tea, this fic likely won't be, either! xoCome say hi on tumblr@jynzandtonic!ʕ •ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡················································
Relationships: Adam Sackler/Reader
Comments: 141
Kudos: 220





	1. A (Wood) Working Title

**Author's Note:**

> ················································
> 
> Of course, I'll make sure this fic is well-tagged, but I do want to reiterate that reader gets pregnant (and actively wants to get pregnant) in this fic. If that's not your cupp'a tea, this fic likely won't be, either! xo
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr [@jynzandtonic!](jynzandtonic.tumblr.com) ʕ •ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ 
> 
> ················································

It was astonishing how quickly the sounds of the city faded.

You remember when you first moved to Brooklyn; you thought you’d never sleep again with the wail of sirens and incessant honking, the loud pips of streetside conversations and arguments. 

It wasn’t intentional, nor was noticeable—but at some point, you started belonging to the city just as much as it belonged to you. The noise that once tormented you was now no more than a comforting hum in the background of your life.

Such was not the case with the fucking guy across the hall. 

The noises that come out of that apartment are the type that no amount of time, no meditation practice, no pair of overpriced noise-cancelling headphones could help you get used to: hammering, sawing, the _shittiest_ music played at _deafening_ volume, weights(? they have to be weights, right?) clanging, and just… shouting? Random fucking shouting. All the time. Because why not?

You thought he must have been renovating at first, but the daily racket’s been going on for so fucking long. Too long. He’d have to be done by now. Right? _Right?_

Your apartment in Park Slope is perfect—a sunny little galley kitchen, a real bedroom (!) with a real door (!), a living room that goes for miles (well, by New York standards) with windows taller than you, a fire escape you can climb out to on warm summer nights—and you’re not going anywhere… So something must be done about the _racket._

It’s Saturday morning, and you’re snoozing under a cloud of blankets, soft sunlight barely peeking through the blinds. 

Your neighbor has decided it’s the perfect time for some fucking... construction work or something.

Grumbling, you check the time on your phone. Half-past seven. 

After careful consideration, you’ve decided killing him is the only reasonable option.

You pause to google the minimum sentence for premeditated murder in New York state. Pondering the two-decade figure, you raise your brows. Could be worth it. Well, what if you got off with just manslaughter? 

Regardless, today’s the day. Dude’s gonna get an _earful_ from you this morning.

Haphazardly slinging your bathrobe over your shoulders and shuffling into your slippers on the way to the front door, you fling it open with a bang. It’s two long steps across the hallway, and you’re slamming the side of your fist on his door without reserve.

His pounding stops after he hears yours.

The deadbolt clicks; a rogue ear and dark eyes peek out from under safety goggles pushed lazily up his forehead—he’s… he’s sort of cute, _no!_ he’s… dead meat, he’s…

“Uhhhhyeah?” he offers, seemingly unperturbed by your knocking...

... but his eyes go wide when you go off like a tea kettle.

“WHAT—” you’re certain you see him jump a little, “—in the actual FUCK are you DOING in h—what _is_ that thing?” 

You catch sight of a contraption so bizarre that it stops you mid-yell, standing up on your tip-toes to get a better look at it over his shoulder. 

“It’s a raft. I’m gonna sail it down the Hudson,” he offers.

You’re so confused you just walk right past him, right up to the strange apparatus in the middle of his living room. It does not _look_ like any sort of watercraft you’ve ever seen.

“Uh, sure, come on in,” he muses, mostly to himself—you’ve busied yourself with inspecting his wooden contraption. He quirks a brow at you. _Cute_ , he thinks.

And suddenly, you become aware that you’ve barged into the home of someone you’ve never met after screaming in their face.

“Shit,” you say, mortified. “I’m (Y/N). I live across the hall. I just walked into your house without an invitation.”

Your neighbor’s face breaks into a toothy grin, one that lights up his whole face as he laughs. 

He extends a hand. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Adam,” he smiles.

You take it, his grip warm and firm. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” you smile back. “Well, Adam, I’m going to be honest. I came here to kill you because it’s before 8 AM and you’re using power tools.”

“Oooh… yeah.” He sucks air through his teeth, looking guilty.

“But considering that you seem like a very nice person and I’ve made myself look like an absolute lunatic, maybe we can call things even for today.”

“No, no, shit, I’m sorry about all the noise,” he starts, gesturing toward the tool bench and piles of wood. “Sometimes I don’t even notice it, I guess. And sorry I woke you up.”

For the first time today, you consider your appearance—sleep shirt, no bra, hair allll kinds of fucked up, mismatched socks poking out from your slippers. _Oh, Christ._ You grab the lapels of your robe and cross them over your chest. 

You also realize Adam isn’t wearing a shirt. You gulp.

“All good!” you chime, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “Sorry for the home invasion.”

“You can… invade my home… whenever you like?” he giggles. “I mean really, come over whenever. Also, tell me if I need to shut the fuck up.”

“Thanks,” you smile. “I might take you up on that. I mean, on coming over,” you stumble, “not just telling you to shut the fuck up.” 

“You’re a weirdo, (Y/N). I like you. Now get the fuck out of my apartment,” he grins, starting to hang his tools back on the pegboard.

“Good luck with your raft thing!” you toss over your shoulder before you shut the door.

_Fuck._ The noisy neighbor is cute.

. . . . . .

Months pass and you don’t see him. You don’t hear him much, either. There’s still the occasional hammering and sawing of course, but not at such bizarre hours, and never on weekend mornings. You wonder what he’s building, if he finished his project, if he ever ended up sailing down the Hudson. You wonder what he does, and why you didn’t ask him when you were over there. You wonder what sort of excuse you could devise to go back over, even though he’d said you were welcome.

You patter around your apartment, mindlessly tidying. Bending down, you pluck a book off a teetering stack next to the sofa. _How to Raise a Wild Child: The Art and Science of Falling in Love with Nature._ You look at the title wistfully—you hoped you’d have a little one to dig in the dirt with someday. Taking a step forward, you flip open the front cover and— _shit!_ —the leaning tower of literature topples to the floor. 

“I need a bookshelf,” you sigh to yourself. 

_Wait…_

. . . . . .

Your knuckles rap on Adam’s door—cheerily, this time.

“Hey, it’s me! The weirdo neighbor!”

He’s smiling ear-to-ear when the door swings open.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks, miming his invitation in an exaggerated fashion. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” you laugh, walking into his living room-turned-shop space.

“Do I need to?”

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up. Was I being too loud?”

“No, no, no! I was actually wondering if, uh...” you wave your hands in the general direction of his workbench, “...you’d help me build a bookshelf.”

You’re feeling a bit bashful now, but it’s too late to back out.

“Fuck yeah!” Your hesitation melts at his excitement. “What are you doing today? Do you know how to use a circular saw?” 

“Nothing, and sort of?”

He grins and tosses you a pair of safety glasses. 

“Let’s make a bunch of fucking noise.”

Sweat, sawdust, and laughter: the project goes quickly when you’re working together. You learn a lot. You learn to set the blade depth on a circular saw. You learn to drill pocket holes with a jig. You learn that Adam studied lit and comp, that his apartment is covered in tiny towers of books, too. You learn that he’s got a dirty mouth and laughs easily. You learn that he’s been sober since he was a late teenager. You learn that he hates ice cream.

When you’re done, he helps you lug the big ol’ thing over to your place, even helps you start packing your books into it. 

A cover catches his eye: _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_. He peers around the apartment while you’re busy deconstructing another pile of books.

“So, uh, do you live here with anyone else?” he asks. 

You cackle.

“Now that’s a really serial-killer thing of you to say.”

“Ah, yup. Realized it as soon as I said it. Also, do you have any bleach?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just fuckin’ with you,” he laughs. “No, I just saw your book, and, uh, I guess I was just wondering if you had a kid or… anyone else around.”

“Nope,” you sigh. “Just me. Kid someday. Sooner than later, I hope.”

“Oh, cool,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. He might even look a little wistful, too.

You watch as he slides an armful of titles into the top shelf, admiring your shared handiwork. The bookshelf really _is_ better than anything you could buy at Ikea. _So_ much better.

“Damn. We _made_ that,” you grin at him.

“You did most of the work,” he grins back.

“Thank you so much, Adam. For all of it.”

“Of course,” he says. “I had a shit ton of scrap wood and… it was really nice to get to know you better.”

“Likewise,” you nod. “We should hang out more often.”

. . . . . .

At first, it seems like he’s just never around; there’s no answer whenever you knock.

One day, you see a different man unlocking the front door with a bag of groceries under his arm. 

“Hey, um, excuse me?” you ask from your doorframe. “Does the last guy from this apartment still live here? Adam?”

“Adam as in Adam Sackler? The cro-magnon with the woodshop? Sort of.”

“That’s the one.” 

“I’m Ray—” he offers his free hand while he props the door open with his foot, “ —I’m just subletting while he lives with his girlfriend. However fucking long that lasts.”

“Oh,” you say softly. _Girlfriend_ , you think. You give him a smile anyway. “Well, welcome to the block, Ray. I’m (Y/N). Holler if you need anything.”

And then the years pass.

At some point, he moves back.

You don’t know because you ever see him; you know because you _hear_ him.

But this time, the noise isn’t the same. 

It’s screaming, shit breaking, who knows what else. Sure, there are periods of peace between maelstroms, but those storms always blow back through.

You worry. 

You wonder if you should try knocking again. If he might want to come over for a coffee, talk about whatever the fuck has been going on in his life.

You think about what’s happened in your life since you’ve seen him last.

It’d be nice to catch up.

Finally, you get your guts up. You know he’s over there—at least some of the time, that is—and you think about him every time you look at your bookshelf, and you wonder what he’s been reading, and if he’s doing alright, and… you have to go. You have to check in.

You take a deep breath and swing the door open…

… only to find Adam standing there, teary-eyed, hand raised in preparation to knock.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“Of course, of course,” you say, ushering him in with a hand on his shoulder. “How do you feel about pizza?”

“I feel good about it,” he mumbles, plopping down on the couch.

You dial it in and sit down next to him.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

He gulps.

“Just ended shit with my girlfriend. Told her to move out. It was toxic and we both knew it.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you say. “Do I need to run out and get a pint of ice cream, too?”

“Oh, please no.” He half-smiles.

“Ice cream and _Mean Girls_. I’m tellin’ ya. It’s the cure for a broken heart.” You think of your last breakup, how your partner had told you he just didn’t want children, that it was a dealbreaker. You think of your body, wracked by sobs, and how _alone_ you'd felt.

“Maybe just _Mean Girls_ ," he says.

“You’re a very compliant prisoner,” you say, smiling and nudging him in the ribs with your elbow. “So it’s been, uh—” you fake like you’re checking a wristwatch, “—about four years. Wanna catch me up on things?” 

And he does. He tells you about Hannah, about his explosive relationship with Jessa, how he feels like he can’t help but gravitate toward things he knows will hurt him, how he’ll lash out in return.

And you listen. You get it: the type of relationships that are like wounds that would heal if you could only stop picking at them. Sometimes, you just can’t keep your fingers away.

The pizza comes and goes, inhaled between shared bits of conversation, and the hour grows late.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” you ask him. He looks better, but still worn-down.

“Oh, um… Well, It’d be amazing to crash on your couch,” he says.

“Yeah, oh, yeah, that’s what I meant,” you trip over your own words, hoping he can’t feel the heat radiating from your cheeks. “Let me grab you a blanket.”

You’re not sure why, but when you click off the living room light, you can’t help but feel comforted at the sight of Adam’s large frame spread out on your couch.

  
  


. . . . . .

It’s the little socks that finally tip you over the fucking edge.

You could handle the onesies, the tiny hats, even the shoes most of the time.

But today, for some reason, the little giraffe-print baby socks are too much to take. You’ve wanted it for so, so, so long and you’re fucking done waiting for a relationship to make it a possibility, waiting for someone else to give you permission. You’ve saved a formidable ‘cushion.’ You’ve read every book you could get your hands on. You’re going to have a goddamn baby.

You pull your phone out right there in the department store and call to schedule an appointment with a fertility doc in Brooklyn.

That night, you text Adam to see if he’s free. The two of you have been getting together to hang, swap books, eat takeout, and talk the night away every Friday for the last three months, and you can’t imagine a better friend to break the news to first.

He raps on the door around seven.

“Come in, come in!” you squeak excitedly.

“What is _up_ with you?” he asks, already smiling.

“We’re celebrating tonight!” 

You hand him a glass of Martinelli’s and clink the rim of it with your own.

“Celebrating what?” He takes a slurp. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Mhm. Adam, I’m having a baby,” you announce proudly.

He looks like you’d just offered to catch and cook the elderly neighbor’s Siamese cat for dinner.

“You’re… You’re… With _whom_?” he asks, stunned.

“That’s your first question?” you retort.

“No, I mean, I… I just didn’t know you were even seeing anyone, and…”

“I’m not. Seeing anyone, that is.”

“So whose is it?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Some lucky asshole from the wank bank. My fertility doc gave me access to an online catalog—I thought you might want to browse it with me tonight,” you laugh.

His mouth hangs half-open, like the words he had to say simply fell flat onto the floor, cracked like eggs.

The blood drains from your face.

“Please say something,” you plead, looking at Adam’s bewildered expression.

**“I’ll do it,” he blurts.**

  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. One in a Million

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOH THINGS ARE HEATING UP, BITCHES!

You’re frozen on the spot, jaw dangling, heart pounding in your ears.

_The fuck did you just say_ , Sackler, he thinks to himself. _The FUCK did you just say?_

He’s always suffered from medically-diagnosed foot-in-mouth disorder, but this is some new shit altogether.

And in all honesty, he’s as fucking surprised as you are. Or, at least, as surprised as you _look_. He has no fucking idea what’s going on in your head.

He just… The thought of you carrying somebody else’s baby, some stranger who doesn’t even appreciate how fucking incredible you are—it felt wrong enough to completely shut off the few filters established between his brain and his stupid fucking mouth. 

You move your lips. They feel numb and puffy. You struggle to find your words.

“W-wh… what?” It comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Adam looks at you, panicked but protective—half wanting to sprint out the door and half wanting to reach out and touch you but…

He’s already dug himself into the hole. 

Might as well dig himself deeper.

“I’ll… I mean… I’ll do it,” he starts, talking faster and faster as your eyebrows creep higher up your forehead. “Ifyouwantsomeoneyouknow, you know, insteadofastranger, I mean, onlyifyouwantedto—” 

“Y-you…”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. Drags his hand down his face.

“Fuck. I can go if you want,” he says, shame flooding his veins.

You shake your head ‘no,’ and speak softly.

“Stay. Please.”

You venture a gaze up and down his frame—broad shoulders, long limbs, big hands, a strong jawline—and find his face—intelligent hazel eyes staring out at you from a sea of freckles and beauty marks. 

You think of the donor database your fertility doc had given you access to, the hundreds upon hundreds of bland personal profiles and stats and medical histories, how overwhelming it all felt to even start the _process_ of choosing one.

But maybe you didn’t have to do it at all.

Maybe your choice was standing right in your living room at 6’2” with a look of terror on his—well, now that you’re thinking about it—really quite handsome face.

You struggle to swallow the lump in your throat.

_Well, what the hell._

“Um… Yeah. Okay,” you say.

The silence between you stretches for years.

“What?” he asks softly.

“Yeah. Let’s do it,” you answer.

His chest starts to heave. 

“Okay. Yeah.”

_Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together._

“Great,” you say, wide-eyed, suddenly noticing the heat spreading through your cheeks, your neck, your chest.

“Great,” he replies, meeting your gaze in kind. “Yeah… Great. Well. I, uh… I gotta run.” He sets down his glass of sparkling cider. “Um, thanks, I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to you soon. And, um, congrats!” 

He darts for the door, shutting it behind him quickly.

You float over to the sofa and find yourself sitting on it.

_What the fuck just happened._

. . . . . 

_What the FUCK just happened._

He closes the door to his apartment, leans his feverish head on the cool wood for a moment. He feels dizzy, he feels hot, he feels…

_She’s gonna have your baby._

He offered it to you before he even knew what he was saying, but somewhere inside him, he knew exactly what it meant.

_She’s gonna have your baby._

You said yes. You wanted it. You could have told him to fuck off, told him he was a perv, told him to never talk to you again. But instead of all those magna cum laude assholes with nice teeth and perfect donor profiles, you chose _him_.

_She’s gonna have your baby._

He curses himself. Hates himself for it. He shouldn’t want to fuck his hand right now… but he does. 

He fumbles with his button and fly, hands still shaky from your conversation. Pushes his jeans and briefs down to his thighs. Lets his stiff cock bob free.

Was he hard the whole time he was talking to you?

He spits in his palm and slicks up the underside of his shaft, whimpering at the wetness against his skin.

_She’s gonna have your baby._

There are other nights when he has time—time to edge himself, time to drag the pleasure out as long as he can while he jerks his length—but tonight isn’t one of those nights. He’s rough with his cock, gripping tight and hard as he pumps his hand just underneath his tip, finally allowing himself to think about your body in ways he’s never allowed himself before. 

Maybe the two of you won’t even fuck.

But right now, he couldn’t give a fuck less. He’s just thinking about his cum _inside_ of you while he drags his fist over every swollen vein, grunting and gasping with the effort.

_She’s gonna have your baby._

But maybe the two of you _will_ fuck.

Maybe you’ll do things the old-fashioned way.

Maybe he’ll get your legs up on his shoulders, get to fuck his cum deep into your tight little pussy, keep his cock inside you afterward to make sure none of it spills out.

He’s getting desperate now.

His grip is vice-like; he bucks his hips into his hand, imagining it’s you he’s fucking. It’ll never be as good as the real thing, no, but it sure is nice to shove his cock into the tight little ‘o’ he’s made with his thumb and fingers.

_She’s gonna have your baby._

He thinks about your belly starting to swell up, how the neighbors will ask you about it, and... 

He whines as his cum splatters on the inside of his front door—creamy white rivulets dripping down to the floor and he wipes his hand on his jeans, defeated.

_The fuck is wrong with you, you fucking creep?_ he thinks, cock still throbbing as he tucks himself back in his jeans and goes to grab a rag.

. . . . . 

You stare at your bookshelf.

You said yes.

You fucking said _yes_.

Does that make you seem weird? Fuck, you hope not. Well, he probably wouldn’t have offered if he _thought_ it was weird, but…

_You’re gonna have his baby._

He’s one of your closest friends, if not _the_ closest. If anyone you actually knew was going to get you pregnant, it might as well be _him_ , but that’s not just it, is it?

You wouldn’t have said yes to literally anyone else you know. You’d have laughed in their face and commended them for pulling off such a good joke.

But not him.

_You’re gonna have his baby._

You don’t know why that makes you feel fucking woozy.

And if you’re being honest, it makes your clit throb, too.

You suck on two fingers and let your hand sneak down the front of your pants.

You’re so red-hot when you push into the cleft of your pussy, so wet and juicy—maybe you didn’t need to lick your fingers at all.

It must be the hormones. That’s why you’re so riled up. It’s good, it must mean you’re more likely to conceive, it’s…

_You’re gonna have his baby._

The way your clit betrays you just at the thought of it—tightening and tingling before the pads of your fingers even find it, and when they do…

You can’t stop thinking about it.

_You’re gonna have his baby._

A dirty little moan slips out on that first flip of your clit, the stiff peak of it ricocheting against your body. 

Your fingers find their rhythm; you make sweet little circles around that taut bud, quickening and slowing with the waves of your pleasure.

Head lolling back against the couch cushions, you think about the first day you met him. The way his body looked. The low-slung Levis and the beads of sweat on his muscular chest. Those dark eyes.

You will yourself to be quiet.

What if he can hear you all the way from his place?

Maybe you’re mortified… or maybe you _want_ him to hear.

_You’re gonna have his baby._

He’s going to cum inside you.

He’s going to fuck you exactly the way he needs to until he cums inside your pussy. He’s going to gush inside you during all those times you’re the _most_ fertile.

Fuck, you’re close.

As you work your clit, humming and gasping, you decide you’re not going to accept an ‘anonymous donation’ from him.

You need the real thing. The _real_ _fucking_ thing.

_You’re gonna have his baby._

And then your voice starts to catch in your throat; your whole body starts to freeze, then tremble. You shake and whimper as your climax crashes over you, wave after wave of lush electricity washing through you, fingers still working, riding it as long as you possibly can.

When you come down from your high, you feel a sense of resolve. You lick your fingers clean, panting and squirming at the wetness seeping from between your thighs. 

You’re gonna have his baby. And only the real thing will do.


	3. Green Means Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said _IDIOTS_?

Seven in the morning on a Saturday.

Perfect time for a jackhammer directly outside your building, right? Maybe you’re just not meant to sleep in while you’re living here.

The funny thing is… you almost wish the noise was Sackler.

Soft light drips through the curtains; you stretch out to shed the heaviness in your limbs. You feel a bit of shame at the way your clit feels sore from how hard you’d worked it last night, your mind on Adam’s body on top of yours, fucking into you deep. 

It’s just… _an arrangement._

It’ll save you thousands of dollars… literally. It’s, like, fifteen-hundred bucks for every single try at the clinic—and that’s twice a month, for who knows how many months it’ll take to get pregnant. And Adam’s a good candidate: smart, healthy… great hair… those dark chocolate eyes that brighten to luminous hazel in the sunlight…

_Alright, knock it the fuck off,_ you think. You'd better work out some logistics.

You clamber out of bed, heading for the bathroom to splash some cold water on your already-warming face. You pull up his number and shoot off a quick message.

. . . . . 

His phone buzzes. 

He’s been pretending he was asleep since who knows when. 

Slide, unlock. 

**> Coffee and talk in fifteen?**

His heart drops. 

You’ve changed your mind. He knew you would. 

He’d pumped his cock until he fell asleep, and he woke up knowing you wouldn’t really want him. Want any of it.

Of course you wouldn’t. Who the fuck would want to have a baby with him? What, because he’s good with his niece, he could actually handle having his own kid? But it wouldn’t even really be his kid, would it? Fuck. _Fuck._ He hadn’t thought any of this shit through. He’d just been busy thinking of the way your pussy walls would feel all slicked up with his cum, the way you’d look with a big round belly, the way it’d sound when you told people it was _his._

He drags himself out of bed, dick sore and heart full of dread. _Fuck, this conversation is going to be fucking awful._

Jeans. Shirt. He even grabs a fresh one, not something off the floor. Gotta do a little something for his dignity.

He shuffles out the door and across the hall barefoot, pausing in front of your door to take a deep, heavy breath. 

He raps twice with the back of his knuckles and waits anxiously.

You open the door—still in your pajamas—and press a steaming ceramic mug into his hand.

It’s your _favorite_ mug. He remembers.

“Did you bring your phone?” you ask.

“Oh, uhm, yeah,” he fumbles, following you to the small couch and sitting down next to you. 

“Okay, download this app. It’s an ovulation tracker.”

“An ovu- _what?_ ” His brows pinch together and lift as he shakes his head.

“Ovulation tracker. Basically… Well, it tells when I can get knocked up.”

“Oh. _Ohh, shit._ Okay.”

Adam Sackler’s heart is pounding in his throat. 

You _hadn’t_ changed your mind.

He opens up the app page—hoping you can’t see the slight tremble in his fingers—and taps the download icon.

“So I ovulate once a month, about fourteen days before I have my period. There’s a three day window leading up to that day that when I'm the most fertile,” you say matter-of-factly. “So that’s when we try for it.”

“Alright, yeah. Cool,” he says, running a hand through his hair nervously.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, and so do you. A small silence seeps through the living room.

Adam clears his throat.

“So are, uh, we just gonna turkey baster this shit?” 

You snort into your coffee, trying not to spit out your mouthful. A little dribbles down your chin. 

“Cute,” he teases with a dickish smile, then he looks back down at the glowing home screen of the app on his phone, apprehensive.

“Fuck you,” you laugh, wiping your chin with your palm. “Um…” you start, studying the rim of your mug carefully, “I mean, if that’s what you’re more comfortable with, cause we could just..”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. We could just…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, just to simplify…”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Well, if you’re okay with the, uh, the time commitment. It would be, um—” you swallow, “—once a day, three days a month? If that works?”

“Uh, sure. Totally. I mean, you know my schedule, I’ve got fuck-all going on besides a few auditions and shoots. All of it’s flexible.”

_Three times. He gets to fuck you three times._

He wills his cock not to stiffen up in his jeans, but it twitches with interest. He digs his thumbnail into the palm of his hand and tries to focus on the pain, but it only helps a little.

“Great,” you say, pussy clenching around nothing, hands clenching around your coffee mug to keep them from shaking.

“Great, he says, biting the inside of his cheek hard.

“Do you have that app up?” 

“Yeah, yeah, right here.” He hands you his phone.

You log in with your account details and your personal calendar pops up. 

You’ve been tracking your cycles for months now, even before you decided to have the baby. There was just… something about knowing when you were fertile that… _fuck_ , you don’t even know. Something that made your blood hot, made your clit stiff. Those three days were your favorite time to stuff yourself with your biggest toys, make yourself cum on your fingers, imagine you were getting _filled up_ over and over again.

“Here—” you say, showing him the app interface. “The three green dots are the two days before I ovulate and the day of. Red dot is when my period should start and… sort of when I find out about… everything.”

He looks over the calendar, checking the dates. 

_What day is it today?_ he wonders, racking his brain—he doesn’t want to make the obvious move of checking it on his lock screen. 

His jaw clenches when he remembers.

“So… Friday is the first day you could…?

“Yep!” you squeak, heart still fluttering nervously, but excitement starting to course through your veins.

_Friday is the first day you could get pregnant._

“Friday…” 

His pupils dilate.

_Friday is the first day HE could get you pregnant._

“Does that work for you?” you ask hopefully.

. . . . . 

It works for him.

Honestly, he’d bail on any fucking audition or play or shoot or commitment that got in the way of this. Done. No second thoughts, no hesitation. 

He stands in the shower, hot water sliding down his naked frame, cock half-hard already.

He hasn’t let himself fuck his hand in three days—he wants to save everything he has for you: every stiff inch of him, every raised vein on his shaft, every drop of his cum… and fuck, it’s been hard not to give in. But you’re worth it.

He’s sure tonight will be… clinical. Purpose-driven. It’s not a hook-up, for fuck’s sake. But he still wonders if he’ll get a good look at your cunt. Wonders if you’ll get a good look at his cock. Wonders if you’ll _like_ it.

Any other night, he’d turn the water on cold, try to shock himself out of this headspace. But tonight, he’s heading over to your place. 

He towels off, combs his hair, brushes his teeth. He wonders if he should put on a button-down. He feels like he’s getting ready for a date, even if he knows he isn’t. 

An hour of pacing around his apartment later, he knocks at your door.

“Hi,” he says. Should he have brought… flowers or some shit? No, definitely not.

“Wow, you look nice.” You swing the door open, inviting him in. “What’s the occasion?”

_Shit._

“Oh, uh… I had an audition earlier today,” he fibs, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Nice!” you chime. “You’ll have to tell me all about it later. By the way, do you still wanna do the usual Friday?”

He’d completely forgotten. _Fridays._

Recently, you'd been ordering too much take-out and watching whatever film-festival flick had won an award most recently… aaand usually bickering about it afterward. 

“Yeah, sure, of course,” he says. _You still wanted to do Friday?_

“Good.” You smile big and bright to hide your nerves.

You’d been intentional about it—you really wanted to do something that would establish this wasn’t awkward. _It wasn’t going to be awkward._ Honestly, it was quite serendipitous the first day of your cycle was on a Friday; you already had a normal routine to fall into after, um…

“So where do you want to, uh…” He gestures around, not making eye-contact.

_Fuck. Is it going to be awkward?_ you think to yourself. _Does he still want to?_

“Couch?” you ask. “Maybe just the side of the couch?” 

You figured it would be best to keep things out of the bedroom. It’d be too... intimate. You didn’t want to weird him out. Better to be casual about the whole thing. Quick and dirty. It’s all for a purpose, anyway…

“Sure, that works.” 

He watches as you pad over and follows slowly, taking this as his cue that the plan’s still on.

“You could just, I guess…” you start shyly, leaning your waist over the couch arm and arching your back in the slightest, “... just fuck me from behind?”

This way, clothes stay on. This way, he can’t see your face when he shoves his cock inside you—you’re worried about that.

“Uh, yeah. Can do,” he says, stepping behind you. His head spins just seeing your ass splayed out in front of him, even with all your clothes on, and…

You pinch your eyes shut. You really shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t push it, but…

“Do you need any help getting hard?” you ask, not daring to look over your shoulder.

He stops fiddling with the buttons on his jeans and clenches his hands into tight fists. _Jesus fucking christ,_ he thinks, dropping his head back to exhale a silent breath.

“No, I, uh—” he returns to his task, voice tight in his chest “—I think I got it.”

Pushing his jeans and briefs down to his muscled thighs, he finally frees his aching cock from its confines. He’s already flushed purple-red, his length stiff and sensitive and twitching. It’ll only take a few pumps to get him there.

His skin feels so hot when he wraps his hand around his shaft and strokes from base to tip. Light touches, light touches. He doesn’t need much, doesn’t want to spoil the sensation when he first pushes into you.

He gently places his free hand at your lower back to let you know he’s ready, fingertips soft at your waist. 

“Do you need any help getting wet?” he asks, voice huskier than he wanted it to be.

You hook your thumbs under the elastic of your waistband.

“I—I think I’m good.”

He doesn’t know that you’ve soaked through one pair of panties already today, that you changed into a fresh pair before he came over so he wouldn’t see.

You start to tug your bottoms over your ass, revealing your shiny slit, your puffy lips, your swollen clit. You quiver for him; you can feel the heat of his body behind you, sense how little space exists between you.

Adam’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. _Fuck._ Are you always so fucking _juicy?_

He grinds his teeth so hard his ears ring. He has to play it cool.

_“Are you ready?”_

_“Yeah.”_

Words barely more than whispers. He can’t remember who asked and who answered. 

He drags his tip through your glossy cunt—gathering your wetness, smearing his precum in your folds. You shudder when he bumps your clit, swallowing any sound you might have made.

Your trembling fingers dig into the soft cushions of the couch as he lines himself up with your entrance, his other hand gripping your waist.

His mouth falls slack as he presses his cockhead into your slick heat.

“ _Fffffuuuuuck,_ ” you whine, the word falling from your lips before you can catch it.

“Are you okay?” he asks lightning-fast, protective instincts overriding the feel of the snug squeeze on his cock.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, yes,” you babble, heat coursing through your cheeks. “It’s just, you’re… um, big, and I—”

He doesn’t mean to, but his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hip and he sinks in just a little deeper.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, voice clipped. _You’re so tight, you’re so fucking tight._

“No, it’s okay, it’s okay, keep going,” you pant.

Pulling your waist back and shifting his hips forward, he rocks his length into you—watching, mesmerised, as your wet cunt takes every inch of him. 

Your eyes pinch shut as he fills you to the brim, stretches you more than you thought you could be stretched. The burn of it is sublime—delicious fire spreading through your core that makes your legs quake. You push your ass back into him, hungry for more.

He feels it, and wonders if it’s just you shifting your weight—but he takes the opportunity to grind into you, feel the swell of your ass against him. He can feel the _end_ of you like this, his tip crushing into your cervix. 

Right there. He wants to pour his cum into you _right there._

Stifling a groan, he slowly pulls out to the tip, feeling the way you grip him like a vice—almost like you’re sad to lose his cock—before he drives back in. He starts slow; he wants to take his time stretching you out… and if he’s being honest, he might just want to make this moment last. 

Watching your body, he looks for the signs: the tension in your lower back starts to ease, your head starts to loll forward, your breathing is deep. You’re still tight, but you’re supple, pliant—he can _really_ fuck you now. He starts to set a rhythm, dragging his cock out and punching it back in, drinking in the way the shockwaves ripple through your body with every thrust.

He’s never had to pretend like he wasn’t enjoying fucking someone, and _fuck_ , it’s hard. His jaw hangs open, working from side to side as he stares at the ceiling and wills himself to stay quiet, to shut the fuck up. 

If you were his, he’d ask you if you liked it. Ask you if you liked his ‘big’ cock. Ask you if you wanted him to make you cry on it. 

He snaps his hips faster and faster, intent on fucking you right even if he can’t tell you exactly how he wants to do it.

You’re glad you’re face-down.

Biting into the edge of a throw pillow, spit dribbles at the corners of your mouth.

You won’t make a noise. You won’t.

You thought he’d be big, but you had no idea he’d be _this_ big. Your cunt grips him greedily every time he withdraws, and your belly clenches up tight every time his cock grinds into your front wall—every time he goes deep, deep, deep. 

You want to buck back into him, to slam your ass back to meet his hips, to hear the wet slap of your skin on his.

But you don’t. You make yourself stay quiet as he fucks into you like he means it.

He finally cracks—a groan forces its way from deep in his chest. He’s close. He’s so, so close. 

“Does it help if you cum?” he grunts. 

You take a deep breath through your nose and unclench your jaw, mouth sore from the effort.

“I don’t really know, I—” His hand wraps around your waist and two large fingers dip into the cleft of your pussy, brushing over your sensitive clit. “ _Oh fuck me._ ”

It was said as an expletive, but he treats it more like a command.

He pounds into your cunt, panting with the effort. His fingers work at your clit furiously, making fast, firm swipes and circles over your tight bud.

_Oh, no._

Your whole body starts to clench and shudder, the unbearable tension drawing tight like a bowstring.

And then it snaps.

You’re unable to stop the filthy moan that peels itself from your throat as you cum on his cock, every vein in your body flooding with liquid fire. Your back arches deeply and your cunt clamps down on him as you ride the waves of your pleasure…

And then he tumbles after you. His hips stutter and his core squeezes up tight as he floods you with cum, his _seed_.

He doesn’t think he’s ever cum this hard or this much—just knowing you’re not on birth control, that you want him to _fill you up_ , that you want him to _knock you up_. 

He holds you flush to him until he’s sure he’s given you every spurt of cum he has… and maybe a little longer.

He wants to linger—wants to feel his _donation_ in your hot little pussy. But he has to pull out.

Drawing out slowly, he watches the tiniest trickle of cum drip down your thigh, wondering if it’d cross a major line to swipe it up and push it back into your cunt.

You pull your pants up hastily, rushing to play off how hard he just made you cum.

“Okay, great!” you chime, face hot and heart thumping. You’re still panting a little. “I just need to keep my hips up for a while.”

“Sorry, what?” His confusion breaks his post-orgasm haze.

“Um, well… to keep your cum inside me as long as possible,” you explain.

Fuck, he thinks he’s going to pass out.

“Great, yeah.” His eyes must be dinner plates. He zips himself back in his jeans and steps around the side of thr couch.

You grab the throw pillow, concealing the wet corner you’d been biting in your grip. Pivoting over the arm of the couch, you lie on your back and place it under your hips, letting your legs dangle over the side where you’d just been fucked.

“Do you wanna look around in the menu drawer and order something? I’m up for whatever delivery sounds good to you.”

He looks over at you, laid back to make sure you don’t spill a drop of his cum, and thinks that he’d do anything you asked.

“Sure,” he says.

“I’ll get the movie cued up.”

. . . . . 

It’s some film from the Cannes festival. You’re only half paying attention.

Boxes of Chinese takeout litter the coffee table, and a half-finished plate of fried rice rests on your belly.

From this angle, it’s all too easy to look up at Adam while his gaze is fixed on the screen. You wonder what it’d be like to look him in the eyes while you fuck.

Absentmindedly, he lifts his hand and starts to stroke it over your hair.

Any other night you’d tease him for being so weirdly affectionate, but tonight… you think you’ll pretend like you don’t notice it.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

. . . . . 

“What’d you think?” he asks, half-smiling as the credits roll.

You blink your eyes open, dazed.

“Best movie I’ve ever seen,” you say confidently.

He picks up the shrapnel from dinner and returns to the living room, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I should probably head out for the night,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah,” you muse. He almost looks like he’s.. a little sad. He must be tired. “Same thing tomorrow?”

“Same thing tomorrow.” He opens the door, lingering for just a moment. His eyes are soft. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

  
  



	4. Red-Handed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oopsies I accidentally wrote 3k two days in a row *shrugs*

The door clicks quietly behind him and you hear his footsteps recede down the hall.

You figure it’s probably been long enough.

Fuck, you’re still so _full of him._

Shifting your hips off the pillow, you roll to your feet. Instantly, you feel his spend start to seep out of your cunt, and only one thing is on your mind: _no no no no no. You’re not ready to lose him._

You rush down the hallway to your bedroom and toss yourself on your bed, propping your hips up with your hands. Bridging yourself with your legs, you wriggle your pants down over your hips, your ass, your thighs—all the way down to your ankles, stepping out of each leg. You place the crumpled ball of fabric under your waist to catch the mess, and sink your hips down.

_It’s okay to be greedy,_ you tell yourself. 

You feel the squelch of his cum as you press two fingers into your cunt—fingers that feel so small, so inadequate… but they’ll do the job. 

You’ve kept it nice and warm for him here, letting his cum take root. You push it in deeper and deeper, shoving your digits in as far as you can go, the webbing of your fingers grinding desperately against your pussy lips. 

_He came inside you._ You can feel the excess gushing out around your fingers, slowly dribbling down to the tight pucker of your ass. 

Canting your wrist, you dig the pads of your fingertips into the sweet ripples of your g-spot.

You’d ride a toy, but it’d only disappoint you. Better to make yourself cum with your hands.

Spreading your legs wide, you reach down to your clit, rubbing with three fingers—it almost feels like his _two_ fingers this way. 

It doesn’t take long.

His cum slicking your fingers, your body welcoming it in—you work your clit furiously till your back arches off the bed, finally letting yourself moan the way you wanted to with him.

_It’s okay to be greedy,_ you tell yourself. 

You pull your fingers from your dripping cunt and lift them to your lips.

_Just a little taste,_ you think.

Tongue darting out of your mouth, you let it flit against your fingertips.

_Your cum. His cum._ Tangy, salty, musky, _sweet._

You press your head back into the mattress and sigh. 

You’re totally fucked.

. . . . . 

Second night. He’s five minutes early.

Other side of the couch this time. Looking at the bookshelf you built together.

You tried to stretch yourself out with a toy to get ready for him, but it didn’t make any difference. At least you manage not to swear when the swollen tip of his cock finally squeezes through your tight entrance.

You swear you can feel the veins on him as he pumps into you, sucking breaths through his teeth almost like… he’s having a hard time _not_ cumming.

If that’s the case, it'd make two of you.

You’d googled it last night—it doesn’t matter whether or not you cum when you’re trying to conceive… but you decided not to bring it up with Adam.

You’re done for when his fingers find your clit—rubbing fast and tight, making your legs quiver and quake—and it’s uncanny how soon afterward he cums, too.

Fuck, it feels good to be full again.

He plops down on the couch next to you, a little out of breath. 

“What are we going to watch tonight?”

_Oh, shit._ You hadn’t assumed you were going to hang afterward again, but…

“Let’s pick something from the Criterion Collection,” you smile, feeling oddly comforted by the newly-established routine. 

This time, you manage to get back into the swing of your ‘spirited discussions.’

. . . . . 

Third night. He’s ten minutes early.

You lead him into the living room, your pussy every bit as wet as it’s been for the last three days, but tonight… maybe hands-and-knees wouldn’t be too inappropriate. 

“Do you want to kneel behind me on the couch? My, uh, legs are a little sore.” You smile and make it sound casual, maybe even a little bit like a joke. 

“Sure,” he says. “Sounds great.”

He curses himself internally. _‘Sounds great?’ You fucking creep. Might as well tell her how nice of a view it is, too._

Clambering onto the cushions, you settle your weight on your elbows and poke your ass up in the air. You feel the couch compress as he kneels down behind you, hear the metallic grate of his zipper. He’s taking that big fat cock out, getting it hard and ready for you—ready to give you all the cum you need to have a baby.

Today’s the day— _you’re actually ovulating._

“Um, can I… take your…?” His fingertips hook in the elastic of your waistband, finishing his question with a little tug.

“Yeah! Yeah, go for it,” you say, too ready to get fucked to care about doing it yourself.

There’s something about it—about taking off your clothes himself—that makes Adam’s cock jump. His own hands revealing your plump ass and shiny-slick cunt. All for him.

And there’s something about the way he fucks you tonight—something harder, something faster, something more animalistic—that makes you think he _needed_ to take you like this. 

He looks down at the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass, the way he can _see_ you gripping the edge of the couch cushion—and he thinks that if this is the last time he’s going to fuck you, he’s going to make it count. 

He pounds into your cunt so hard you could hiccup with it, his skin slapping against yours at a quick cadence, and you let out the smallest little whimper.

He knows he’s fucking you right.

And he’s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

He can’t resist.

“You want a baby? Huh?” he grits out.

You’re hanging on by a thread, so close to cumming that you can hardly process what’s happening.

“Mhm,” you moan so, so softly.

“You want a fuckin’ baby? Say it.”

“I want a baby,” you sigh, cunt fluttering around him, head spinning. 

_“Say it.”_ He sinks his fingers into your silky folds, swiping over your clit just the way you like it.

“I want a baby, I want a baby, I want a baby,” you cry out, finally letting go after holding back for so long.

You clamp down on his cock, body spasming as the tidal wave of your orgasm crashes over you. You’re gonna have a baby. You’re gonna have a baby. You’re gonna have _his_ baby.

Looking down, he can see your toes curl up. He wishes he could see your perfect fucking face, cumming on his cock like this—but he’s still gonna give you what you need. He spills himself into you, rocking his hips deep with every pulse of cum he empties into your waiting cunt. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuuuck,” you pant, slowly coming down from your high.

He pinches his eyes shut, lamenting the fact that a satisfied ‘fuck’ was the first and last word he’d hear from you like this.

He pulls out slow, taking a good long look at how your pussy grips him, how _creamy_ you are after a good fucking. Zipping himself back into his jeans, he settles down on the couch, lightheaded. 

You pull up your pants, starting to pivot and grab your little pillow, but Sackler pats on his lap.

“C’mere.”

You look at him, uncertain, but he’s calm and relaxed. He pats on his lap again.

You scoot forward, setting your hips up on his thighs and leaning back on the cushions.

_Is this really okay?_ you want to ask.

Eyes closed, breathing deeply, his head is dropped against the couch. He places a heavy, gentle hand on your belly.

“I want you to have a baby, too, kid.”

“Really?” you ask, damning the little hint of tears that prick at your eyes.

“Yeah. You’re gonna be a great mom.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

You wipe at your cheeks, ensuring no incriminating evidence remains.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out through his nose, then whips his head down to look at you.

“Now, what the fuck do you want to eat? I’m fuckin’ starving.”

. . . . . 

The first few days without him are strange. Lonely, even. As much as you’re comfortable with your own company, it was… _nice_ having Adam around every night for dinner and conversation. That, and getting bent over and fucked to high hell.

It must just be the hormones. 

The first Friday that’s just dinner and a film is a little strange, too. Your body’s response is nearly Pavlovian—the moment you see his name on your phone screen that morning, your pussy gets drenched.

_No,_ you tell yourself like a misbehaving dog. _Not tonight. Not tonight._

You make yourself cum with your favorite vibe before he comes over just to make sure your head stays clear. It helps. A little.

The mix of excitement and apprehension you feel is beyond bizarre—looking at the red dot on your ovulation calendar, you swing from nauseatingly nervous to irrationally giddy.

And the days tick on, the countdown steadily dwindling. You try to focus on other things—work, hobbies, _anything—_ but your mind always comes crawling back to the unavoidable question…

_Are you pregnant?_

. . . . . 

**> Still want to do this Friday?**

His text rolls in on Thursday night, and the question gives you pause. 

Tomorrow is the day. The day you should find out. _Should_ you still do Friday?

Well, if you… are… he’s the first person you’d want to tell. Probably. And if you aren’t… well, you don’t know.

You fire off a reply.

> **Sure**

. . . . . 

He’s worried about you. He’s been worried all week. All of last week, too. He’s not one for lucky charms, but he almost wishes he had one right now.

He hopes you’re healthy. He hopes you’re feeling okay, that you’re not too stressed out. Stress isn’t good. He hopes you get the news you want tomorrow…

And if he’s being honest, he hopes he gets the news _he_ wants tomorrow.

When he closes his eyes, he can still see the way your cunt glistens with slick, the way you always seemed to be gushing for him. Maybe something in his selfish fucking lizard brain wishes the first round didn’t work so he gets to feel your walls wrapped tight around him again, but his heart would break to see you disappointed.

He hopes he fucked you the way you needed. Hopes he _gave_ you what you needed.

. . . . . 

Your night is restless—fretful dreams thrown like stones into shallow pools of sleep. You stare at the ceiling in the pre-dawn blue, swiping your hand on your inner thigh each time you feel a whisper of wetness in your cunt. No red so far.

Morning, midday, early afternoon. No blood. You’re nervous—you’re so fucking nervous—but you can’t keep the smallest tendril of hopeful excitement from wrapping around your heart.

_Today could be the day._

By the early evening, you’re grinning. Your heart races. Your palms sweat.

You’ll take the test before Adam comes over to make sure.

He’ll be over in twenty, but he’s been running early recently—strange, for him.

You jiggle your leg for five minutes, tapping the small, pink box against your thigh.

You can’t wait any longer.

Tearing the package open, you drop it on the floor as you stride to the bathroom. Your hands are clumsy, shaky.

_Today could be the day._

You set the test stick down on the side of the tub, pull your bottoms down… and that’s when you see it.

The bright smudge of blood in your underwear. A red slash confirming your failure, cutting straight through your heart.

A sob rips itself from your chest. Your vision blurs with hot tears as you fumble for a pad, hands unwieldy. 

Two knocks sound at the door.

You drag yourself down the hallway, bite your lips to still them, pull the handle open.

He sees your tear-stained face and freezes, blood running cold.

“I didn’t… I’m not…” 

You can’t get the words out. Can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence.

Adam rushes through the doorframe and wraps you in a crushing embrace.

“I’m so sorry, kid, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, face buried in your neck. 

He smells like soap and sawdust and cedarwood, and you melt into his arms, letting all that’s familiar about him bring comfort to your harrowed heart.

“I was so sure I would, that I would…” 

“I know, I know, I know,” he says, one hand firm on your back, the other on the nape of your neck.

“I shouldn’t have let myself hope so much,” you sob.

“No, no, you _should_. We’re gonna get you pregnant, kid.”

“What if we don’t?” 

“We will,” he insists. “Come on, come here—” he takes you under his arm and leads you to the couch, “—sit down.”

He paces to the kitchen, throws the kettle on, paces back—only away from you for moments. Sinking down next to you, he returns his hand to your back, rubbing warm, soothing circles.

“I feel like I did something wrong,” you sniffle, wiping at your eyes.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You did everything _right_. I know how much you know about all this shit.”

“But—”

“No no no, no fuckin’ ‘but’s,” he cuts in. “Anyway, it coulda been me. It coulda been anything.”

“It wasn’t you,” you blubber, shaking your head. “And I don’t want anybody else.” 

His heart jumps. _Did you just say…_ No, he can’t think about that now.

“You don’t need to worry about any of that shit, okay? All you need to worry about is what kinda tea you want, yeah?”

. . . . . 

He stays with you till late. Later than late. He asks you if you’re _sure_ you’re okay twice before he finally shuts the door behind him. You crawl into bed and wrap yourself in blankets, feeling emptier than empty.

But over the following days, the hole in your chest starts to fill with determination… and even a little bit of _hope_. 

You can do this. You’ll try again. And again and again and again if you have to. You remember the little socks in the department store and how fucking fierce you felt that day. You’re still that person.

You’re gonna have a goddamn baby.

According to the calendar on your app, you'll start ovulating 15 days after the beginning of your period—that’ll put the window in about two weeks, from Saturday through Monday. 

But what you weren’t expecting is how fucking horny you’d be the week beforehand. 

Monday hits you with a fire between your thighs that can’t be quelled, an ache that can’t be satisfied with your fingers, a hollowness that can’t be filled with any toy in your collection. 

You try to fuck it out of yourself all week, stuffing your cunt full and rubbing your clit just like _he_ would. 

_Him. Adam._

He won’t leave your mind—not the sound of his rapid breath, nor the rhythm of his thrusts, nor the feeling of his thick cock spearing you over and over again. 

Nor the way it felt when he held you. 

By Friday, you can’t take it anymore. And at this point, you’ll settle for just two days in your prime fertility window if it means you can feel his cum inside you tonight. 

Plus… he won’t know. 

You send the text. 

**> Well, tonight’s the night. You ready?**

. . . . . 

He looks different when he walks in the door. Disheveled, maybe. Eyes darker than usual. 

He follows as you back up toward the couch, but you nod your head in the direction of the hallway.

“Is bedroom okay tonight?” you ask, throwing caution to the wind. 

“Mhm,” he says lowly. 

You pass through the threshold, eyes still fixed on his—only breaking his gaze to turn and climb onto the edge of the bed, face down and ass up. 

He pulls his cock from his jeans and grinds it against your clothed cunt, squeezing at your hips. 

_This is new._ Fuck, maybe he _did_ need help getting hard...

But no, he’s rock-hard already. You keep yourself quiet. 

He jerks your bottoms down roughly and plunges into soaking pussy—no time to stretch you, no time to adjust. 

It’s hopeless: you mewl. 

Hands harsh at your waist, he snaps his hips into you, pulling your ass back to meet him. He’s never fucked you quite like this—like he’s _trying_ to crack your façade. 

And he finally does.

“Oh, oh f-fffuck,” you moan. 

“Yeah?” he grits out. “Say it. Fucking say it.”

“W-what?”

He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head back sharply. You can see his eyes like this, blown black and framed by his wild, dark locks. And he can see _your_ eyes. 

“I wanna hear you say it—that you like it when I fuck you.”

“I—I’m just, I’m ovula—”

“No you’re fucking not,” he spits. “Not until tomorrow. I can see your fuckin’ calendar, remember?”

Heat tears through your cheeks. 

_Fuck. He caught you._

He drives into you deep, pinning you there. 

“You just wanted my cock tonight, didn’t you?”

_You’ve already dug yourself into the hole._

_Might as well dig yourself deeper._

“Fuck, I did, I did, I did,” you keen, the pressure at your g-spot crushing. 

“Then say it.”

“I love it when you fuck me,” you gasp. “I think about it all the fucking time.”

He drags his cock out to the very tip, rocking it in and out at your entrance. 

“You want this cock?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Please…” Your mouth hangs open, neck straining at his grip. 

“Then you’ll take it while you fucking look me in the eyes.”

Releasing your hair, he spanks your ass hard—savoring the way you cry out—and rolls you onto your back. You rush to pull your bottoms all the way past your ankles as he shucks off his shirt, dropping it on your bedroom floor. 

He grabs behind your knee and pushes it toward your chest, taking his cock in hand and working it back into your tight, wet pussy. 

It’s every bit as gorgeous as he imagined—the look on your face as he fucks into you—and he’s gonna see what you look like when he fills you up, too. 

He finds his cadence again, watching you bounce with every thrust. Goddamn, you’re even tighter like this. He grabs your shoulder, slamming your body back into him. 

“That’ll teach you,” he snarls against the wet slap of skin on skin. “ _Thaaat’ll teach you._ Are you gonna fuckin’ lie to me again?” 

“No, I won’t, I won’t,” you pant.

“I’m staying here with you till your fuckin’ cycle’s over,” he says, pounding into you fiercely. “And I’m getting you pregnant this time.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Jig's Up

It was always subtle, but it was always there...

That little something in the way your breath got ragged when he sped his pace. The way you’d shift your hips back into his ever-so-slightly as he’d fuck into you. The way your body would jerk when he rubbed your stiff little clit.

_You liked his cock. You liked what he could do to you._

As soon as the thought slithered up from his brainstem, he couldn’t get rid of it—but he had no idea what to do with it...

Until you texted him tonight.

He knows you. Maybe better than anyone else. There’s little shit that you space out on now and then, but you _don’t_ forget things like this.

He’s lost track of how many times he’s pulled up that fucking app in the past two weeks, wishing those three green dots on the calendar would come sooner. 

Your ovulation window starts tomorrow. So when your message rolls in, his jaw clenches, black pupils swallowing the amber brown of his eyes. 

He’s only thinking one thing: _You little fucking liar._

He can nearly smell it on you when he walks in the door, when you lead him back to your bedroom. He wants to make you moan tonight, wants to hear you cry his name while he’s buried in your cunt. He wants to see your body laid bare, wants to see you spread out for him.

He’s going to take you apart. And he’s going to make you tell the truth.

. . . . . 

All the times he’s fucked his hand and imagined what you’d look like with your mouth dropped open, your eyes squeezed shut—it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. You’re fucking _gorgeous_. 

_“I’m getting you pregnant this time.”_

He repeats it in his head like a mantra, snapping his hips into yours hard and fast. His gaze is torn between your face and the way your pussy grips him, your swollen clit standing at attention.

It’s been four days now—he’s been saving up all his cum for you, ready to pump your cunt full of it. He can feel his balls pulling up tight, ready to spill into you… but not until you’re shaking and moaning on his cock.

“You gonna cum for me while I fill you up?” he grits out, dropping his thumb to your clit, swiping over the slick, stiff peak with swift strokes.

God, the way you clamp down on him when you start to fall apart for him—squeezing and squeezing and squeezing on his cock, your head thrown back on the mattress… It’s enough to pull the first spurt of cum from his leaking tip. The moment you feel his creamy, wet, warmth flooding you, you’re gone—searing heat tearing through your body as you quake for him.

“Fuckin…” he pants, slowly pulling his cock from your still-fluttering cunt, “... don’t move. I’m getting my shit. I’ll be right back. _Stay here._ ”

He sloppily tucks his shiny red cock in his jeans, buttoning them halfway and not bothering to retrieve his shirt. Turning on his heel, he strides from the room—you hear your door open and slam, then his.

His cum dribbles out of you, hot and thick and everything you need, and you greedily push it back inside with your fingertips. 

_You’re gonna stay like this all weekend._

Your cover’s already blown. You don’t even bother to stop when his footsteps sound in your apartment, storming down the hallway to your bedroom.

He chucks his bag in the corner without so much as a sideways glance, his eyes glued on you fingering his cum back into your pussy.

“Here,” he says, pulling his cock from his half-buttoned jeans, hastily pushing the fabric down his thighs. “Let me help you with that.”

. . . . . 

You never thought you’d wake up next to Adam Sackler. 

Yet here you are. 

He sleeps like he owns the place: long limbs draped over your frame, pinning you to his bed-warmed body. His breath is slow and deep, expression soft beneath tumbling waves of dark hair. 

Even in his slumber, his cock taps, interested, at your lower belly—his morning-wood every bit as devoted to the cause as he was last night. He’d peeled every stitch of clothing off your body, hands roaming your exposed skin while he fucked you raw. You can’t remember how many times he came inside you before you both collapsed, exhausted.

It’s a quiet morning—maybe _he_ was the secret to having one—and you take a moment to really look at him, unrushed, in the dappled sunlight. There’s something about his nose that makes you want to rub yours against it, something about the plush pink of his lips that suddenly feels... _irresistible._

You could kiss him right now, and perhaps he wouldn’t wake. 

The thought makes your heart pound in your ears, and he starts to rouse as if he could hear it himself. 

He groans and stretches, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You fake like you just woke up, too.

“It’s game day, champ,” he says, squeezing your waist with a sleep-heavy hand. “How ya feeling?”

“Sticky…” you laugh.

He smiles, smug and satisfied. 

Working his hand lower, he swipes his fingers between the crease of your thighs.

“You _are_ sticky,” he hums, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re coated in his cum. His fingers creep higher, dipping into the slick heat of your puffy slit. “And you’re _wet._ ” 

Your hips jolt as he grazes past your clit, still sensitive from the night before.

“A little…”

“A little,” he mocks.

He hitches your top leg up over his waist and slides the head of his cock through your folds, pushing at your entrance till your tight pussy starts to swallow him.

Your body is still so sleep-soft, so dreamy-dazey that you moan deep and low when he plunges into you.

It’s going to be a long weekend.

. . . . . 

Two loads of his cum, then he decides you deserve a water break.

“Get in the shower, sticky girl,” he says. “I’ll make breakfast.”

As you step under the soothing cascade of steam and hot water, Adam’s hand pokes through the side of the shower curtain, offering a bottle of orange Gatorade. You think you hear him mutter something about ‘staying hydrated while I fuck your brains out’ as he walks away.

He feeds you and sits you right back on his cock.

You nearly rub your knees raw on the couch while you ride him, hips rocking and cunt fluttering while he thumbs your clit and sucks on your nipples. Before he cums, he flips you on your back, propping you up with the pillow you used the very first night, sure to keep every drop inside you.

And then things start to blur together.

Both your legs up on his shoulders, his thick cock bottoming out in you with every thrust of his hips. Empty take-out containers. Phone left on ‘Do Not Disturb’ all day. Who knows how many messages you missed. The wet squelch of your cum-filled cunt as he fucks you from behind, snarling filth in your ear. _You want me to knock you up? Huh? You want me to fucking knock you up?_ Your ankles hooked together behind his back, your nails scrabbling at his skin. Waking up in his arms. The way he smells when he sweats. Ruining towels. Cum-stained sheets. Showering together. The way his soaped-up hand feels sliding between your legs, washing you tenderly.

And then it’s Monday night.

You say goodbye at the door and linger there, joking that you want to make sure he ‘gets home safe.’ 

He makes you promise you’ll holler if you need anything. Makes you promise to keep him updated.

The door clicks shut and you stumble over to the couch, still leaking from your last round together. 

The place feels almost… empty without him. You curse yourself for feeling like your heart’s halfway across the hall, sitting between your apartments with arms crossed like a petulant child.

_He could stay here. He could come back over. Or you could go over there._

You swat the thoughts away. He’s given up so much of his time for this already.

You don’t miss him. No.

It was just nice to have the company, to have a warm body to hold you. Nice to get fucked the way you’ve been craving for weeks.

You don’t miss him. You won’t even let your mind go there.

The two of you never really got the chance to _talk_ this weekend—you were too busy getting filled up again and again, too occupied with the thought that every time might be the time you got pregnant.

You both know the sex is good, but you’re still doing it for a specific reason, right? _Right?_

_Shit_ , you think, feeling the soreness start to set into your muscles and the conflict settle in your thoughts. 

Friends with benefits is always a dangerous game, and you’re trying to have a _baby_ here. You probably shouldn’t make any decisions till you take your test in two weeks, anyway. 

You shuffle off to the bathroom to get some ibuprofen, wondering if he left you any Gatorade in the fridge. 

. . . . . 

He drops on his bed, deadweight. It doesn’t smell like you. He doesn’t like that shit at all. 

His cock is still hot and sensitive from the last round; even the soft cotton of his briefs feels like too much on his skin. He’d rather be laid out in bed with you on your crumpled sheets, running his fingertips over your belly, and…

_Knock that shit off,_ he thinks.

He knows you like fucking him now, but it doesn’t change anything, does it?

You’re trying to have a kid. You’re not trying to… start any shit. Get into anything messy. 

He doesn’t even know if _he’s_ trying to get into anything messy. 

But it’s more to him than just sex, isn’t it?

He feels… fuck, even he hates the way it sounds in his head… _possessive_ , maybe? It can’t be fuckin’ normal to want to put a baby in someone so bad. He wants to leave his mark. Wants to see you swollen up with him. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat, pulling harsh handfuls of his hair. 

He’s gotta let you take the lead on this.

He waits anxiously to hear about Friday plans, compulsively checking his phone for your text. It finally rolls in on Thursday night. 

**> Want to just do the normal Friday?**

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath. _The normal Friday._ Time to go beat his cock in the shower. He needs it if he’s gonna keep his hands to himself tomorrow night. 

. . . . . 

_No fucking till your next test. No fucking till your next test._

You curse your hormones, curse your attempt at willpower, curse your decision to keep things neat and tidy between you. 

He seems tense when he comes over, fingers fiddling with the side-seams of his jeans throughout the movie. You sit on your hands, forbidding yourself to touch him. You exchange quick goodbyes, then you’re rushing back to your bedroom to rub yourself off, desperate to soothe the agonizing ache between your thighs. 

The next week isn’t _much_ easier, but he looks a little more relaxed this time. He lets himself stretch out on the couch, his body long and languid. You keep to your corner. The way your knee bushes against his is enough to light a fire in your core, but it’s survivable. Barely.

Perhaps it’s because your mind is a few days ahead of you, fixed on the value-pack of pregnancy tests stashed under your bathroom sink. You know it’s irrational, but every night before you fall asleep, you place your hands on your belly and close your eyes, scanning your body for any new sensation, for any sign that you might be… that you might be…

“Alright, kid,” he interrupts your thoughts. “I’m headed. Do you… want any company on Tuesday?”

Your heart swells, flooding with unexpected relief. 

“I’d love that, actually.”

“I’ll be there.” He wraps you in a hug—also unexpected—and speaks quietly. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.”

. . . . . 

_Don’t pace. Don’t pace. Don’t pace._

He clenches his fists in an effort to keep still. He doesn’t need to add any of his nervous energy to yours. 

It had to have worked. He gave you so much of his cum that weekend, filled you up so many times. It _had_ to have worked. 

His heart, firmly lodged in his throat, drops to the bottom of his stomach when he hears your choked sob from behind the bathroom door. 

_No, no no no no no._

You shuffle out, tears pouring down your cheeks, face screwed tight with sorrow. 

He pulls you into his arms, squeezing you so tight you don’t know where your body ends and his begins. 

You breathe together quietly, no words needed between you. He doesn’t let go. 

If he could pour his heart into yours, every ounce of strength and comfort and reassurance he has—he would. He wouldn’t hesitate. 

“Third time’s the charm,” he whispers reassuringly. “I know it.”

“Are you sure?” you say, face buried in his shirt. 

“I’m sure.”

Drawing in a wavering breath, you look up at him. 

“How sure?”

His eyes flit back and forth between yours, intelligent earthen orbs studying you. 

“I’ll show you,” he starts, wiping your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “Get your shit. We’re going out.”

. . . . . 

“I look like fuck,” you complain. “Where are you taking me?”

“We’re almost there,” he says, dragging you down the street by the hand. 

You tromp along behind him, considering that you’ve never actually been outside with him before. Or even seen him outside of his apartment before. Huh. 

He circles behind you, covering both of your eyes with his palms. 

“Keep walking!”

“What the fuck, Adam?”

He steers you off the sidewalk and stops. 

“Ta-da!”

He lifts his hands. 

It’s a baby boutique, colorful displays of clothing and accessories decorating the windows. 

“I run by this place like every day, and I’ve wanted to take you here since… well, you know…” he trails off. “Come on!” He gestures to the door. 

You walk through the threshold into the brightly-lit room, taking in the tables and racks full of tiny outfits. 

You look at him, lower lip quivering. 

“Let’s pick something out, okay?” 

You nod, trying not to let fresh tears well in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

He heads off toward a basket of little socks. 

“Fuck, these are so fuckin’ cute,” he remarks, picking up a pair donned with zebras. “No wonder you want to have a kid.”

“Right?” you muse.

“Fuck. I just said ‘fuck’ in a baby store. Is that allowed?” he laughs. 

“Probably not.” You smile, and it feels… good. “Oh, fuck, look at these,” you blurt, rushing over to a rack of teddy-bear onesies. 

He chuckles, following closely behind you. 

They’re sewn with soft, fleecey fabric adorned with paw-print details at the hands and feet. Tiny, fuzzy ears poke out from the top of the hoods. 

You’re done for. 

You pluck one off a hanger in an infant size, marveling at just how _small_ it is. 

“Is that the one?” Sackler smiles.

You grin and nod, hugging it tight as you walk toward the register. Adam, a pair of zebra socks tucked carefully under his arm, follows your lead. 

The attendant rings you up as you nearly wiggle with excitement—it’s your _very first baby purchase_ , and…

Oh, fuck, it’s _kinda expensive_. 

Adam pulls out his wallet and slides a crisp hundred dollar bill across the counter.

Your goodies are bagged up in a polka-dot bag with mint green tissue paper, and carefully handed across the counter. 

You look at him, slack-jawed as the two of you walk out of the store. 

“What?” he asks, smiling. “It’s the absolute least I could do.”

“Thank you,” you say softly. 

“My one condition is that I get to see it modeled, okay?”

You nod happily. 

He’s _that_ sure. 

The next two weeks pass at lightspeed. Every time you feel uncertain, you look at the tiny onesie folded neatly on top of your dresser, the little socks resting on top of it. 

Third time’s the charm. 

. . . . . 

Third time’s the charm, and Adam Sackler is not fucking around. 

He texts you the week before your ovulation cycle.

**> Take Mon thru Weds off work **

No question mark included. It’s not a request. 

He hasn’t tugged his cock for a week, and he won’t for another week more. 

He’s black-eyed and rock hard by Monday morning, pounding on your door with a ferocity you’ve never heard before. 

“Take your fucking clothes off,” he orders, storming inside and crowding you toward your bedroom. “Gonna knock you the fuck up.”

You stumble backward, shedding your layers as you go, unable to break his ravenous eye-contact. Shoving you back on the bed, he kicks off his jeans and steps forward to meet your hips. Your legs rest flush against his chest, ankles on his shoulders as he buries thick, veiny cock to the hilt. 

You whine for him, wet and ready, but still burning from the stretch. _Fuck, you needed this._ You haven’t touched yourself for two weeks—hoping it’d serve as some sort of offering to the universe. 

And Adam? He’s going to fuck you till you babble. He pumps his length into you hard and fast, teeth bared and muscles clenched. 

“You like this cock? Huh?” 

“Yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah,” you pant. “So f-fucking big. Thought—thought you were gonna break me that first night.”

“Pussy’s so tight I don’t know how I get in it every time,” he grunts. “Maybe it’s cause you’re always so fuckin’ wet, hmm? Is that just for me?”

You gasp as he slaps one of your tits, dropping his thumb to your clit to rub furiously. 

“I asked you a fucking question,” he snarls, grinding his cock deep inside you. Are you wet all for me?”

“M-m-mmhyes!” you yelp. “I always am.” 

“S’what I fucking thought.” he grits out. “You want my cum? You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

Your mouth lolls open, eyes rolling back, every exhale a moan. 

“You want me to fuck a baby into you?” he repeats.

“Please, please, please… _I want your baby, Adam._ ”

He pounds you harder than he ever has, watching your whole body bounce with the force of it, feeling the very end of your cunt with each stroke. 

“Cum for me and I’ll give you a baby, come on, cum for me.”

You’re delirious, cock-drunk, cum-thirsty. 

“Gimme a baby,” you pant, eyes half-open. “Gimme a baby.”

Your walls start to clamp down on him, white-hot light blooming through your core and seeping down to your fingers and toes. 

He cums with a shout, emptying himself into you, cramming his cock as deep as it can go as he paints your walls white. 

And he’s just getting warmed up. 

. . . . . 

Wednesday night.

You rest on your sides, spent beyond spent. His body is molded to yours, gently pumping into your sore cunt from behind. Somehow, his cock is the only thing that makes it feel better.

He nips at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, fingertips working your clit. You hum for him, moan for him, press your frame back into him.

You’re quiet when you cum—soft gasps, your hands wrapped around his arm hard enough to bruise—and so is he. He’s learned your body, learned to let himself go when he feels your walls spasming around him. He fills you to the brim as you both pant into the quiet darkness. 

Adam splays his hand over your lower belly.

“That was it, (Y/N),” he breathes. “I can feel it.”

You place your hand over his.

“You can?”

“Mhm.”

You close your eyes, feeling the warmth of his touch on your skin. You trust him.

His cock starts to soften inside you, holding all him cum in place. You smile just a little.

“You gonna pull out?” you ask.

“Nuh-uh.”

“That so?”

“Staying here till I can fuck you again… One more time for good luck.”

. . . . . 

He can’t help it this time. He paces back and forth, crossing the hallway in four long steps and pivoting on his heel to return.

“Cut it out! I can’t pee while you’re stomping around and shit!” you shout from the bathroom, your nerves already giving you performance anxiety.

You hold the test stick between your legs and stare up at the ceiling, praying for the glasses of water you’d chugged to take their toll.

_Ah, fucking finally._

He thinks he’s going to throw up.

Chewing his knuckles, his eyes shoot to the door when he hears the lock click. 

You open the door, face blank.


	6. Two Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _OH NO DID I JUST ADD AN "ANGST" TAG_

Neither one of you remembers how to breathe. 

The silence stretches between you, hearts hammering. 

You bring your hand to your belly…

… and nod  _ yes _ . 

He crashes into you like a tidal wave, wild-eyed and uncontainable. His mouth on yours is like your first gulp of air. Hands on your face, he kisses you ferociously as you swell to meet him. 

You stumble down the hallway, scrabbling at each other’s clothes, desperate for the feeling of his skin on yours. You hit the mattress and topple backward, bare for each other. 

“Ride me,” he gasps. 

His hands fly to your waist as you straddle his hips, impaling yourself on his stiff, flushed cock. 

He splits you wide open, just the way he always does, stretching your slick cunt so deliciously. You moan for him and roll your hips with the tides of his upward thrusts. 

He looks up at you with adoration. 

_ She’s gonna have your baby.  _

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen: your thighs spread wide, your mouth hanging open, your eyes fixed on his—so fierce and brave. He thinks of how your breasts will swell, how your tummy will grow for him. He places his hands on you, large palms spreading over your belly as you grind your gorgeous swollen clit on the base of his cock. 

You snap your hips faster and faster, filled with him in every way. 

You’re empty of all thoughts but  _ him _ —just cumming on the cock that got you pregnant. 

_ You’re gonna have his baby.  _

Cunt clamping around him, your hips spasm with crackling heat. Your head lolls back as you cry out, digging your fingertips into the solid warmth of his flesh. The familiar wet current of his spend floods your tight channel, sending new streams of pleasure through your quaking body. 

You collapse on his chest; he presses soft kisses to your forehead, running his hands up and down your back. 

Panting out your bliss and disbelief, you roll off to the side, hot cum leaking out of your spent pussy onto your quivering thighs. 

“We’re gonna have a baby,” he grins at the ceiling. 

“We’re gonna have a baby,” you repeat, face scrunched in utter joy. 

You breathe together, shared energy thrumming where your skin touches. 

And then your stomach drops. 

_ We. _

_ There’s not… ‘we’ aren’t… _

“I guess we didn’t need to do that,” you say, not looking at him. 

“Oh,” he replies. “Yeah, I guess not.”

He feels his chest filling with lead. 

“I’m not… I don’t regret it, we just…” You don’t know quite what to say. You wanted it, wanted  _ him _ , but… it’s not as simple as that. 

_ He kissed you.  _

“No, it’s cool, I mean—” he makes a half-hearted, celebratory fist, “—mission accomplished.”

“Yeah,” you laugh softly, heart strangely heavy considering the circumstances. 

“Well holy shit, kid, you’re pregnant!” he recovers. 

“Oh my god…” Your hands come to your cheeks, delirious smile returning to your face. “I’m fucking pregnant.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “So..?” 

“Oh my  _ god _ , I have so much to  _ do _ !” You wiggle with excitement, squeaking as you bolt to retrieve your clothes. “I’ve gotta call my doc and my OBGYN to make appointments, I want to go get prenatal vitamins, I should probably buy some new pants, I…”

He smiles as you zip on—rattling off all these things he knows you’ve been yearning to do for so long. Your happiness is salve for his heart. 

You deserve this. You deserve every second of it. He feels lucky he could help make it a reality for you, even if his part in the process is over. 

He picks his clothes off the floor and returns them to his broad frame, watching as you pull book after book of reference materials from the shelf you’d built together. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m really happy for you, (Y/N).” He means every word he says. 

You drop your stack of books and rush to meet him in the doorway. 

He startles when you throw your arms around him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. 

“Thank you, Adam. Really.”

. . . . . .

He wants to slam his door, but he doesn’t. 

He wants to break shit, wants to yell, wants to do fucking  _ something _ to release the torrent of confused energy coursing through his veins. 

If he unbuttoned his jeans, he’d still be able to smell you on his cock. Across the hall, he knows his cum is still dripping out of your cunt. He knows his fucking  _ baby _ is in your belly. 

But it’s not really his.  _ You’re _ not his. 

He figured it was just another weird fucking kink, wanting to knock you up—but now that it’s all real...

He knew shit would be complicated, but he didn’t know it would  _ hurt _ like this. 

Growling, he yanks handfuls at his hair and paces the length of his apartment. 

He needs to run. Anywhere. Fast. Till he can’t think anymore. 

Shoes, shorts, stairs, pavement, gone. 

And he fucking runs. Feet pounding the concrete at a harsh cadence, he steers himself toward Prospect Park, convinced that if he only speeds his pace a little more, he can escape the maelstrom in his head. 

He burns through mile after mile until every inhale feels like liquid fire in his chest, until his heart hammers so hard it could crack his ribs. 

He finds himself lakeside and skids to a stop, bending over as he sucks in desperate breaths. 

He stands up, hands behind his head, and looks out at the calm expanse of water. 

“FUUUUCCKKK!” he bellows, sending a pair of ducks splashing away in alarm. Several joggers and park-goers turn their heads with judgemental looks. 

“Adam?”

“ _ WHAT? _ ” He spins on his heels, dropping his hands into fists. 

Ray stands with a to-go cup of coffee in hand, looking at Adam like he’s entirely unhinged. 

“Jesus Christ, the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” Adam snaps.

“Sure,” Ray mocks, incredulous and high-pitched. “Just out terrorizing the commonfolk, as is your want. Come on—” he beckons back toward the path, “—walk and talk, asshole.”

Adam growls, but follows along anyway. 

“So what did you do this time? Destroy any apartments?” Ray deadpans. 

“I got my neighbor pregnant.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He gestures wildly. “Tell me it was the cute one and not the old lady.”

“Fuck you.”

“So the cute one. Okay, well, that’s a big oopsie.”

“It was on purpose.”

“ _ Excuse me? _ Someone wanted to procreate with  _ you _ ?”

“Fuckin’ apparently.”

“And I take it you… aren’t happy about this?”

“No, I fucking am,” Adam seethes. 

“Then what the fuck is going on?” 

“She wanted a kid and was gonna use a donor, so I said I’d do it instead.”

“You  _ what _ ? And she said  _ yes _ ?”

“Yeah, and now—”

“You want the kid.” Ray never was one to pull punches. “Do you love her?”

“I gotta go.” Adam takes off at a sprint, set on running himself into oblivion again. 

. . . . . .

You don’t mean to miss the first Friday. You’ve just been so fucking excited all week, so gleefully ridiculously giddy about all there is to prepare for, that you don’t even think of it. 

He never texted you about it either, so you figure you’ll let things settle as they are. It’s probably best to take a little space, anyway. You let the next Friday slide, too.

The last time you fucked, it was… different. 

You couldn’t deny the sexual chemistry, and the two of you had been trying  _ so _ hard for the baby—you suppose it was only natural that you got swept up in the exhilaration of it all. But he’d kissed you, and you’d kissed him back. You didn’t feel like friends when you did it. 

Another week passes with no contact. You start to wonder if he’s going through one of those swings where he won’t use his phone for a month. 

_ Phones work both ways, _ you remind yourself.

You open up a message window and realize it’s been a month since you last texted him.

**> Hey, sorry for dropping off, i’ve been really busy! Want to do this friday?**

Across the hall, Adam picks up his vibrating phone, surprised to see your name on the screen. You’d gotten what you needed from him. He didn’t expect you to reach out. 

But it’s been a month, and he figures he can try to be a fucking adult about things. 

**> Totally understandable. Yeah, let’s do Friday**

You smile as his reply rolls in. You’ve… missed him. A lot.

When he comes over, he sits on the opposite side of the couch, looking slightly too large for the small piece of furniture. He keeps his hands on his knees, his expression reserved.

“How have you been?” you ask cheerily, eager to dispel the tension in the room.

“Good. Good, yeah. You?”

“Good! Uh, moody. And excited. And my tits hurt,” you laugh.

Sackler chuckles at your honesty. Under different circumstances, he’d gallantly offer to help out with your tits.

“But you’re all good? Healthy and everything?” he asks, apprehensive.

“Yeah, absolutely—” you drop a pile of menus on the coffee table in front of him, “now whatcha think we should order?”

Dinner from the tandoori place sounds like a great idea until you dish up a large plate of flavorful curry and roasted vegetables.

It doesn’t smell as appealing as it usually does, but you figure it’s just your pregnant brain fucking with you. You  _ love _ this meal. 

You scoop a large forkful into your mouth and your eyes go wide. 

_ Nope. _

Adam bolts upright with alarm as you sprint to the bathroom, promptly barfing your guts out in the toilet.

“Holy shit, kid, are you okay?” He kneels down next to you, putting a hesitant hand on your back. 

You pinch your eyes shut, swimming through waves of nausea.

“Mhm,” you manage after a few moments. “I think that, um… that is a  _ ‘no’ _ food right now.”

_ Shit, _ he muses.  _ This must be part of… everything. _

“Do you want it out of the house?”

You nod in response. “Thank you.”

He squeezes your shoulder and rises to his feet, moving quickly to rid the apartment of the overwhelming food-smells. He leaves the rice, just ‘cause he’s worried about you getting something to eat.

When he returns, you’re back on the couch, hugging your knees and staring at the floor.

“How ya doing?” he asks, eyes full of concern.

“Better…” Your eyes flit up to his and you smile weakly. “But could you grab me a bowl just in case?

“Got it,” he laughs.

Dipping into the kitchen, he brings you back a tall cup of ice cubes for you to suck on.

“Helps with the nausea,” he offers.

He rubs your back soothingly as you pop one into your mouth, cursing himself for watching the way your lips and cheeks move as you suck.

The next week, he’s the first one to text.

**> How about plain rice this Friday?**

You snort, having since compiled a long list of foods and scents that make your stomach do somersaults.

**> Sounds amazing. I’ll treat.**

He smiles down at his phone and fires off a reply.

**> Not a chance**

He shows up with one carton of white rice and one carton of brown. He read that brown rice was more nutritious, and he’s been thinking about that for you lately, so… it might be worth a try. He brings a chunk of fresh ginger, too—it’s supposed to be good for morning sickness. He might have done a  _ lot _ of googling in the past week. 

He cuts the ginger into thin slices and simmers it with honey while you sit on the counter, chatting him up. It feels so… good to be with you like this. Just together. And he’s proud of how the thought of fucking you on that counter has only crossed his mind a few times. After all, it’s not his fault it puts you at the perfect height for his cock.

After he pours you a steaming cup of ginger tea, he herds you back to the couch, making sure you put your feet up on a pillow.

And much to your surprise… the ginger tea helps. A lot. 

But it doesn’t taste quite the same when you try to make it yourself, so you ask him to brew a big batch for you the next Friday. You like his much better. 

He teases you for getting up, like,  _ thirty times _ to pee and for crying at anything remotely emotional during the movie (“It’s not my fault!” you squawk, swatting at him. “I’m hormonal!”), but he’s mostly just happy to see you feeling better.

The week after that, you look… luminous. Like the whole world just _suits_ _you._ Best of all, you eat the whole carton of brown rice. He marvels at your profile as you watch the screen, glowing—but it’s not the light from the television making you shine.

. . . . . .

You can hardly believe your first trimester is over. Your energy is changing, your  _ body _ is changing, and every new day feels a little lighter—shedding off the weight of exhaustion as you grow.

But with it comes a change you don’t expect. It hits you like a fucking freight train—this feeling you’ve been so unfamiliar with for months, now. 

You’re  _ so _ unbelievably horny.

All of a sudden, you’re back right where you were four months ago: sitting next to him on the sofa praying you can keep your hands to yourself. 

You bite your lower lip, shutting your eyes against another swell of wetness between your thighs as your clit throbs and tingles.

“Hey, whoa—” he catches a glance of you, “—are you okay, kid? Feeling sick again?”

_ Fuck. _

“No, no, it’s not like… no. I’m fine,” you assure him.

“Are you sure?” His brows furrow.

“You smell really good,” you blurt.

“I… smell good?”

“Mhm.” Your hips rock subtly as your cunt clenches around nothing, your clit greedy for even the slightest bit of pressure.

“Okay…?”

It’s quiet between you.

Your fingers, completely detached from any form of executive control, start to creep closer to his muscular thigh.

“Do you miss it?” The question slips past your lips before you have a chance to censor yourself. 

“Miss what?” 

“... You know.”

This is  _ not _ how he thought his night was going to go. His cock jerks in his jeans.

“Miss fucking you? Am I supposed to answer honestly here?”

“Uh-huh.” You nod, eyes closed.

He digs his tongue into the inside of his cheek. 

“Of fucking course I do. But I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“What if we made an exception?”

He can still read your body. 

He could fuck you brainless right now. He could dip you back on the couch, pound his cock into your soaking pussy till you were whining for him. He swears under his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

“I don’t think that’s really up to me.”

“I…” you trail off.

_ Fuck. _

His chest is heaving now. He’s fucked either way.

“Touch yourself,” he rasps. “Wanna watch you.”

You shove your greedy little hand down the front of your pants, fingers finding your aching clit to rub, rub, rub. You moan out your relief, bucking your hips into your firm touch.

“Fuu-uu-uuck,” Adam sighs. “I bet you’re wet for me—aren’t you?”

Pouting your lips, you whimper in the affirmative. 

“You’re always so fucking wet. It’s unbelievable. God, you sound fucking desperate.” His eyes are blown black with lust. “Have you rubbed yourself off to me before? Huh?”

“Yeah,” you gasp, working your clit in tight circles. “Have you?”

He nods darkly.

“How many times?” you ask.

“Couldn’t count,” he replies.

“How ‘bout one more?”

He lifts a brow at your question, hands twitching.

“Wanna see your cock,” you hiss. “Watch how you do it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, unbuttoning his jeans to let his length bob free. “You wanna watch me tug my cock?”

“I do.” 

He holds out his hand, eyes locked on yours. 

“Spit,” he orders.

You hold his gaze as you pucker your lips and let a clear, bubbling strand drip down to his palm.

“Good girl,” he says, sliding it up and down his swollen length.

He groans as his fingers wrap tightly around his shaft just under his head, coaxing a bead of precum from his purple-red tip. Dragging his fist along his cock, he thinks about how it feels when he first dips into your wetness, how your cunt feels so piping hot against his sensitive skin. He jerks himself nice and rough—just the way he likes it—while he watches you work at your clit through your thin leggings.

“This…” you pant, eyes glued on the way his veins bulge and shift as he pumps his cock next to you, “... is just a one-time thing, okay?”

“Mmhhh,” he grunts as he feels his balls start to tighten up. “'Course.”

. . . . . .

_ Just a one-time thing. _

It echoes in your head, sounding just as fucking stupid and impossible as it did when you first said it.

Last week, you’d scrambled to pull off your bottoms as he pushed his jeans down his thighs, moaning as he fucked the imprint of you into the couch.

Tonight, you find yourself straddling him while the movie drones on, your underwear tucked to the side as you drop yourself down on his hard cock again and again.

You’re hot. Hot, hot, hot. Not just your dripping cunt, but your whole body. You’re tingling for him, nipples hard and skin humming.

He guides your hips up and down with a firm grip, growling every time he bottoms out. 

You hook your fingers under the hem of your sweatshirt—no top on underneath it—and yank it over your head, letting your tits bounce in his face. Groaning, he latches his mouth over as much of one as he can get, sucking and tugging as you ride him.

He pulls off with a wet pop to seek out the other one, and then he stops cold.

Looking down, he sees the swell of your belly—the sweetest little bump. _You’re showing._

“Fuck,” he says, dropping his head to your chest and placing a hand over your tummy. His fingertips press softly into your flesh.

“Oh, yeah…” you whisper. “I guess you haven’t really seen it yet…”

His head spins, a blur of emotions that leaves his hands trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, face pinched tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shifting you off him. “I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

Your chest collapses, and you look at him, shaken.

“What… what do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t do this—” he gestures between you, “—anymore.” 

You wrap your arms across your chest and stomach, covering yourself in shame.

“Is it… is it my body?” you whisper.

“No,” he laughs humorlessly, gathering his things. “It’s not.”

“Then…”

“There’s no place for me in this. We both know it.”

“But—”

“I’ll see you around,” he says, and walks out the door.

. . . . . .

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T WORRY BBYS IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY, NEW CHAPTER WILL BE OUT SOON


	7. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR HANGIN' IN THERE, Y'ALL XOXOXO

Your back is fucking killing you. 

Palms down, you press the heels of your hands into your lower lats, gently arching your spine. Your belly pops out even further like this—full and round and now undeniably pregnant. 

Your old bras lie tucked away in a shoebox at the back of your closet; your swollen tits have long since spilled over the cups, requiring a wardrobe change to accommodate them. 

Stomach grumbling, you pad into the kitchen, opening the fridge for the third or seventh time this afternoon. 

“How are you always so hungry?” you lament to your big belly. “We’ve eaten half the kitchen already.”

You pluck out a jar of olives, a cup of yogurt, and a container of leftover pad thai. Hesitating briefly, you snag the tub of coconut ice-cream from the freezer, too. Just in case, right? You settle down with your little feast and pull up your calendar, checking to see when your next OBGYN appointment is. _Damn, next week already._

So far, your second trimester has been far kinder to you than the first: the oppressive cycles of morning sickness have been replaced with a nearly insatiable appetite, and you’re certainly not opposed to the way your skin’s taken on a healthy glow. Sure, you feel forgetful as fuck, your back is working hard to support your new weight distribution, and the leg cramps can sneak up on you, but things are going… well. You’re healthy. You’ve got this.

Having already inhaled your main course, you pop the lid of the ice-cream, moaning softly at the lush, cool sweetness on your tongue. Food just tastes so _good_ these days. 

It’s not intentional. He just strolls into your mind. _Adam._

A pang of sadness echoes through your heart, but you can’t help but smile a little. _He fucking hates ice-cream._

_If he were here, he’d be wrinkling up his nose at it as you waved a spoonful in his direction, laughing at the way he grimaced._

You haven’t seen or heard from him in a month. The hallway has been uncharacteristically quiet.

There are nights when you can’t sleep, when your chest aches, when you feel so lonely that your throat tightens up with grief. Nights when you wish you could drag yourself across that hallway and into his arms.

But you don’t.

Instead, you hold your growing belly, resolute in the fact that you haven’t been alone since the moment you found out you were pregnant. And maybe—just maybe—that a little piece of _him_ will always be with you.

In the morning, you chide yourself for moping. What did you expect? That you’d stay as… whatever it was that the two of you had become? That you’d be a happy little family all together? You knew what you were getting into when you started this thing. You knew where Adam stood. You should know better than to indulge yourself with thoughts like that.

The spoon you hold scrapes against the bottom of the tub, and you swear at the realization. You’re _sure_ it was just full.

There are a lot of things you can live without right now… but ice-cream definitely isn’t fucking one of them. Time to hit the store. 

. . . . . .

So… as it turns out, there was more you wanted than just ice-cream.

Fully-laden with overstuffed grocery bags, you trudge up the stairs a step at a time. _Christ, this is a fucking workout._ Why do you have to live so many floors up?

As you round the corner to the next flight, your traitorous calf starts to clench up.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

You try to balance on one leg and shake the other out, but you teeter to the side, dropping the handle to one of your bags. The plunder within spills everywhere, leaving you scrambling to catch rolling cans and wayward cartons. 

“Shit, kid, let me help you with that.”

Adam appears behind you on the stairs, large hands collecting your scattered groceries.

You turn to face him, heart in your throat—and he catches sight of your swollen belly.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re so…”

You give a shy half-smile. “Yeah.”

“I mean… wow.” 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was a bit of wonder in his eyes.

You click your tongue. “‘Bout halfway there,'' you say.

He stays quiet, but he knows. He never lost track.

He looks down at his feet, searching for words in his shoelaces, then a jar in his arms catches his eye.

“Since when have you liked olives?” he asks, confused.

“Since this, I guess.” You nod down at your belly, bemused. 

“Weird,” he grins. 

“You’re telling me. I can’t get enough of the fucking things,” you laugh. You lift up one of your grocery bags as best you can, gesturing at it. “Would you mind putting those in—”

“Oh, no, I got it. We’re headed to the same place, anyway.”

“Thanks,” you say, surprised. 

Adam is close behind as you tromp the remaining flight to your floor, holding your armful of bags as you fish out your keys and unlock the door. 

He’s slow across the threshold, wondering if he’s welcome. He doesn’t dare to hope. 

Depositing your groceries on the counter, he lingers for just a moment. 

“How, uh… how are you?” he asks softly. “Is everything—” he waves his hands at your belly, “—is everything good? Are you doing okay?”

_Strange that he’d ask,_ you think.

“Yeah, I am,” you say. “I’m healthy, the baby’s healthy—I even got to hear the heartbeat a couple of weeks ago.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you smile, remembering the appointment and the way your heart soared at the hummingbird rhythm sounding through the Doppler monitor. 

“That’s… amazing. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you. I’m… I’m happy, too.”

He wants to stay. Wants to put his hands on your belly. Wants to wrap his arms around you and tell you how desperately he wishes he could’ve been there with you. 

But he doesn’t. 

“I better head,” he says, thumbing toward the door. “It was good seeing you, (Y/N).”

“Yeah,” you reply softly. “You, too.”

He swears silently when he shuts the door, the familiar feeling of frenetic hopelessness descending on him. 

He needs to fucking _do_ something to get his mind off this shit. He needs to move. Needs to work with his hands. 

Hot tears prick at your eyes as you lock the door behind him. It was too fucking easy to fall back into the comfort of his presence, the ease with which you shared space. The way his scent filled your nose for the first time in so long felt intoxicating. 

You missed the warm timbre of his voice. You missed the way he’d hold your spent body against his. You _missed_ him, but now he’s gone again. And you didn’t say a damn thing. 

Saltwater spills down your cheeks and the loneliness comes flooding back. Your back pressed against the door, you slide down to a seat on the floor, hugging your belly. 

You think of all the check-up appointments when nurses have asked, “Just you, today?”

You choke on a sob. 

You’re supposed to be fearless. 

You’re supposed to be able to do this by yourself. 

. . . . . .

It really takes you back to all those years ago. 

A week of sawing, sanding, and banging. A week of hammering and shouted expletives early in the morning and late at night. 

Your eye twitches. 

Apparently, Adam’s resumed his carpentry hobby. 

It’s been hard enough to sleep at night recently, your mind racing and legs aching. You stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the street morph from one Rorschach inkblot to another, wondering why the fuck he’s using anything that requires an 18-volt battery at 11 PM. 

For a while, you were almost thankful for it; it was easier to be irritated at a loud neighbor than to miss Adam’s company—whatever he was to you, whatever it was you felt for him. But by now, you’ve had it. Your OBGYN appointment is bright and early tomorrow morning. 

The first day you met him, he’d said you could tell him to shut the fuck up whenever, and you’re going to abide by that. 

You snag a sweater and kick your feet into your slippers on the way to the door, jaw clenched. You slam it shut behind you, storming across the hall with hard-heeled steps. 

“ _Adam!_ ” You pound on the door angrily. 

He opens the door, expression briefly disoriented, and then unreadable—lips parted slightly. 

You jab a finger into his chest. “It’s late, I’m trying to fucking sleep, I have an early morning, what the FUCK are you doing?”

“Making shit,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah?” you sneer. “And what’s so important it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?”

Peering around his shoulder, you see it: a small pine frame encased with slender dowels.

He’s building a crib.

Your heart falls into your stomach, the void in your chest burning hot with confusion.

“Is that for me?” you ask quietly, slipping past him to observe the tiny structure, running your hand over the smooth wood grain.

He clenches his teeth so hard his ears ring. Brow furrowed and mouth pursed, he nods.

Your lower lip quivers and disdain seeps back into your voice. “I thought you didn’t want to be a part of this.”

“That’s not what I said,” he retorts, tone harsh.

“Then what?” you snap, tears welling in your eyes. 

He paces the length of the room and back, fists clenching and unclenching, chewing his cheeks.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say?” he asks, turning to face you with his hands raised. “That I _actually_ want to have a kid with you? That I knocked you up and now I can’t stand how I’m missing out on watching your body change every day? I want… I want to fucking _be_ with you. I want to raise your child with you. But you didn’t sign up for that shit. You didn’t sign up for _any_ of that shit.”

The tears start to stream down your face as you stand there, stunned and inarticulate.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whisper, admitting it to yourself as much as to him. 

“Well I can’t just sit back and act like I’m not fucking invested anymore.” He has to draw a line in the sand. He has to protect his heart, even if it means depriving himself of you.

You take a step toward him, your whole body trembling. You’re such a fucking fool—a fool for not realizing it sooner, a fool for not being honest. 

“No, I mean I can’t do this without _you_ .” You stand before him, big-bellied—nothing to lose and everything to gain. “I… I love you,” you breathe. “I don’t just wanna have a baby, I wanna have _your_ baby.” 

The gravitational field between you collapses in on itself.

Your bodies become one as he holds you and you hold him, your unborn baby between you, all three of you finally _home_. As he cradles your head against his chest, he makes a silent promise to never leave the two of you again. Your lips find his, and you breathe in each other’s words of love and apologies for lost time between deep kisses.

“Come with me,” he whispers, leading you down the hallway to his bedroom. 

The smell of him washes over you as your body meets his soft sheets. He’s so tender, so careful, so _gentle_ as he peels off your clothes, marveling at the plumpness of your tits and tummy.

He’s mystified, awestruck—dark eyes full of stars, all for you.

“Oh my god, oh my god, look at your fucking _body…_ ” He presses desperate kisses all over your belly, hands cradling either side. 

Those kisses trail down to your hips as he presses your legs wide, settling himself between them.

Head barely visible over your roundness, he spreads your soaking folds wide and dives into your cunt.

He spent too long holding back, too long lying about his feelings for you.

That time has passed, he thinks, lapping your sweet, tangy cum from the source.

“Wanted to taste your pussy since the day I met you,” he rasps between wet slurps, tongue sliding from your entrance to the tip of your clit before sucking the swollen bud into his mouth.

All you can do is moan his name, lace your hands in his hair, buck your face against him as he devours you.

Even on your most frenzied nights alone—the nights when you rubbed yourself raw thinking of him—you never let yourself fantasize about this: his nose nudging at your clit, his tongue delving into your hole, his lips coated in your slick. It was too much, too far. 

Your whole body starts to shake.

“Adam, baby…”

Abs tightening up as you gasp and shudder, you start to curl up off the bed, affording you a better view of where he’s latched over your cunt. 

“Cum for me,” he mumbles, mouth full of your clit, swirling and sucking and tugging even harder than before. 

Wet heat floods your core and you cry out for him, vision whiting out with bliss as your eyes squeeze tight. Your limbs crackle with energy, tingling all the way to your fingertips, body jerking with zaps of electricity.

When you teeter on the point of pain, he eases you down, squeezing your thighs and kissing your hips.

He crawls up the bed and hugs your trembling, naked body close. He smooths his hands up and down your back, face shiny with your cum, smiling hard. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says.

“Mmmm,” you purr, eyes half-open. 

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Ahuh.” You slowly start to recover and tug at his shirt. “Off.”

He happily complies, tossing it as far across the room as he can.

“These, too,” you say, jerking at one of his belt loops. 

Dimples popping, he shucks them off, revealing the rigid outline of his cock in his black briefs. You run your palm over it, humming. 

“Fffffuck,” he gasps, length jumping under your hand.

You rise to your knees and tug his briefs down his legs, letting his flushed length bob free.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love your cock?” you murmur.

“You - _mmnnhh_ —” he moans as you fist him slowly, watching the way the veins on his shaft bulge, “—might have alluded to it, but…”

“I love your cock.” You swing a leg over his hips to straddle him. “And not just ‘cause you got me pregnant,” you smile.

Sliding his head up and down through your slit, you coat him in your slick, jolting each time he nudges against your clit. His fleshy head nudges at your tight entrance and you start to push him inside.

Though his face is pinched in pleasure, his eyes are soft.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he whispers as you sink down on his stiff cock.

You know he’s not just talking about your cunt.

“It’s...” you gasp as he stretches you to your limit, “... it’s you and me, now.” 

He places both of his hands on your belly as you start to ride him.

“It’s us.”

His eyes stay fixed on your body as you rock on top of him, your pussy gripping him with every delicious stroke. _You’re so beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful._

He rolls his hips to meet yours, driving his cock home deep inside of you. _You’re his._

Your breath starts to grow ragged—he sees the ways your eyes squeeze shut, feels the way your hands squeeze at his waist. _You’re going to cum on his cock._

If he’s being honest, he missed that, too.

“That’s it,” he coos, hand coming to pinch your stiff, swollen nipple. “That’s my girl.”

You whimper, cunt spasming around him, nails digging into his skin. He’s the entirety of your awareness as you tumble over the edge. _You’re cumming. You’re his_.

He pumps his cock into you harder and harder, fucking you through your orgasm till your whimpers become cries. He’s ready to paint your walls white, ready to put his cum right where it belongs.

“Adam, Adam, Adam, _wait!_ ” you pant.

“Are you okay?” His hips jerk to a stop, face full of concern.

“I want to taste you.”

His mouth falls open as you climb off him and slink between his thighs. Your eyes are hooded and hungry as you look up at him. 

Lips parting gently, you take the tip of him in your mouth, tonguing the ring of your cum below his plump head. A deep groan rips from his chest as you envelop his cock in your warm wetness, hollowing your cheeks to suck. You pull up slowly, gaze fixed on his, and he thinks he could pass out.

You start to bob on his length, gurgling and slobbering as you take him as deep as you can. He can’t help but buck his hips when he feels the soft wall of the back of your throat; the sweet gagging sounds you make are entirely irresistible. You cover the length you can’t swallow with your fist, twisting and jerking as you suck and slurp.

His balls start to pull up tight. He knows how much he loves cumming in your hot little cunt, but he never imagined he’d get to cum in your mouth.

“I’m… I’m…” His hand fists in your hair, eyes glued to you.

“Mmhmm,” you moan, ready for every drop of him.

You gulp him down as he gives you spurt after spurt of hot, thick cum, humming gratefully. He could almost cum twice from the sight alone.

“I fucking love you,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief as you pull off his cock with a sweet smile.

You clamber up the bed and into his arms—to your special little place under his shoulder. “I love you, too.” 

He kisses your forehead and smoothes his hand over your hair, your shoulder, your waist.

He grins down at your big round belly. “I did that,” he smirks. 

“Yeah,” you smile up at him. “You did that.”

“Does this mean I get to call you my baby mama?”

“If you want to,” you grin. 

“Fucking absolutely.”

“Does this mean I get to call you my baby daddy?”

“‘Course it does. You could, uh… call me your boyfriend, too.”

“I’d like that. A lot.” You nuzzle your nose into his side.

“You would?” he asks. “Good.”

“I’ve actually got an appointment tomorrow if you... want to come? It’s my first ultrasound.”

“Could I?” he says, eyes bright.

. . . . . .

The tech wheels the ultrasound machine into the exam room and greets you brightly, settling herself on a rolling stool beside you to give a full rundown of the procedure.

“Is this dad?” she asks.

Adam smiles where he sits next to you and you squeeze his hand tight.

“ _Yeah_ ,” you say softly. 

  
. . . . . .  
  
  
  



	8. By Your Side

He stands behind you on the train ride home, arms wrapped around your belly protectively. You see your reflection in the window of the subway car— _your little family._ You look like you’re meant to be together.

Adam catches a glimpse, too. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes into your hair, pressing his lips to your jawline.

He’d watched the screen with wonder as the ultrasound tech had pressed the transducer to your round stomach. _We made that_ , he’d whispered in your ear, squeezing your hand tight.

You plod up the stairs of your building beside him, but an unexpected feeling of sadness bites at your heart when you step on to your floor. Though you’ve been together for the last twelve hours, it feels too soon to say goodbye to him.

The two of you linger in the hallway between your doors, a small silence stretching between you. 

Adam is the first to speak, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t want to be away from you any longer.”

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, comfort washing through your chest. 

“Stay with me. Please.”

He pulls you into his body, kissing you soft and slow.

You’re not sure how something so new can feel so familiar. His tongue slips into your mouth, sliding against yours. Large hands find the sides of your face, cradling you as he deepens the kiss. Your chest starts to rise and fall sharply, heat spreading through your core. You mold yourself to him, inhaling the plushness of his lips. 

He presses you back, back, back into your doorway—not a whisper of space between your bodies—and grinds his hips against yours, moaning softly into your open mouth. 

You have so much time to make up for.

You fumble behind you for the doorknob, your hand leaving his side for only a moment while you hunt for keys. When you start to twist away from him, he refuses to let you go; he sucks your bottom lip so fiercely you can hardly turn your face.

“Inside,” you pant, giggling as he sucks softly at your neck.

“Fine,” he grins.

Stumbling into your apartment, his hands never leave you.

You fall into each other like it’s the first time, like it’s the hundredth time, like there’s never been a time when you were apart.

Your couch seems small now with the two of you on it, filled up with all the memories of the nights you’d spent together as friends, the times you’d tried to conceive, the times he’d consoled you. Before you knew it, he was already with you, every step of the way. _Your Adam._

His hand is soft on your tummy, his eyes warm.

“We made that,” he whispers. “ _We made that._ ”

It feels like home when he pushes his cock inside you, stilling himself to kiss you as you flutter around him.

He thrusts in and out slowly, savoring every silky ripple of your front wall, every lush breath that falls from your lips, every touch of your fingertips. You’re his; you’re all his. He never dared to imagine what life would be like if you wanted him, too, but now he’s here—his baby in your belly, your lips on his, your love radiating through his chest. Those nights when he studied the texture of his ceiling, willing his heart to stop aching, begging his mind not to travel across the hallway to where you lay in bed… They all fade away, replaced by the way you move against him. 

“You’re never going to one of those appointments alone _ever_ again,” he says, forehead pressed to yours.

“Deal.”

That night, you follow him to his apartment, sitting on his bed while he gathers a small bundle of shirts and jeans to stuff in his duffle bag. His sparse toiletries follow along with a few books.

“You should bring more of those over,” you say, nodding at the books.

“Pick out a stack for me,” he smiles.

You carry a wobbling tower of titles back to your place and slide them next to yours in the bookshelf you’d built together. How odd and lovely that it now holds both of your books.

Dresser drawers open and close as you pull out the clothes that don’t fit your growing body. You fold them neatly into a box, and Adam carries it back to his place. While he’s away, you shuffle your belongings, clearing out space for him.

He looks at you like you’re pure sunshine when he returns to find you placing his things in a drawer.

Before you head to bed, you take a moment to look at your toothbrushes together in the little cup next to the sink.

. . . . . .

“Come on. Shot for shot.”

Adam gives his bottle a shake and nudges you with his elbow. Quiet chatter fills the waiting room at the OBGYN’s office.

You wrinkle your nose up at him, warping your face in disgust. “I don’t wanna. It’s so fucking gross.”

You’re two sips into your glucose drink, the sickeningly-sweet orange syrup used for your gestational diabetes test. 

“I know, kid,” he says. “But you gotta. I’m with ya. Let’s go.”

Adam, in solidarity with you, left a liter-bottle of Fanta out on the counter to flatten overnight and brought it to the appointment. _If you have to drink that shit,_ he’d said, _then I will, too._

You clink your bottle against his and down a large gulp, expression twisting at the tooth-rotting liquid. Sackler takes a swig and makes a face like a dog given a pill. 

“Shit’s even worse when it’s not carbonated,” he grumbles. 

“I’m never drinking orange soda again,” you gripe. 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

He swallows his drink down alongside you—every drop—and crushes the empty soda bottle, tossing it across the waiting room into the recycling bin, three-point style. You roll your eyes at him, walking over to the bin and carefully placing your empty inside.

“Now you’ll never make it to the NBA!” he cries.

You snort. These appointments really _are_ better when he’s around.

He waits anxiously as you have your blood drawn. He was never much of a worrier before all this shit. You see his whole expression soften when the OBGYN gives you your extremely normal result. 

“What are we gonna do with the sugar rush?” you ask, walking out of the doctor’s office tucked under his arm.

He drops his hand to your ass, giving you a covert spank. 

“I can think of a few things.”

. . . . . .

Crowding you back into your bedroom, he sits you down on the edge of the bed, pushing your legs wide to kneel on the floor between them.

“I bet you keep your sex toys in here, don’t you?” He grins wickedly, tweaking your nipple through your shirt.

Blood rushes to your face, caught off guard by his question.

“I…” you stammer.

“Show me.”

“Nightstand,” you say, tonguing the inside of your cheek. “Bottom drawer.”

He reaches over and pulls it wide open. 

“I never knew you were such a dirty little slut, he smirks, eyes falling first on the thick, purple silicone cock. “You stuff this thing in your tight little pussy?” 

You shake your head ‘yes’, heat spreading through your chest. You feel like you’ve been _caught…_ and it feels _good_.

“It’s not as big as you,” you admit, a small smile spreading on your face.

“Is that so?” he asks. “Show me,” he repeats.

“You want to watch me?” 

“Mhmm,” he hums, shucking his shirt off and dropping it on the floor.

His hands hook in your bottoms and he tugs them off, exposing your wetted cunt. You pull your shirt off and unclasp your bra, your roundness fully on display for him. 

“Lean back,” he orders, plucking the toy from the drawer as you scoot up to the head of the bed and recline against the headboard. He sucks his cheeks and spits right on the head of it, crawling between your thighs.

You grasp it readily when he offers it, turning the tip to face your jelly-slick slit. Stroking it through your folds, you spread yourself wide for him. 

“Put it in. I want to see you take it all.”

You nod obediently, pressing the tip to your entrance.

It takes some work to push it inside—it always does—but you maintain the firm pressure at your hole, moaning as the toy starts to split you open. 

Adam licks his lips hungrily. 

Finally fully seated inside you, you rock your hips into the length, feeling it press against your cervix. 

“That feel good, baby?” he asks, palming his clothed cock, watching as you start to work the toy in and out of your tight channel. 

“Ahuh,” you hum, eyelids fluttering.

“What else you got in your little drawer?” He clambers over to pilfer through your secret stash, fishing out a teal bullet vibrator. “This is cute… Put it on your clit.” 

He tosses it by your free hand before standing to pull off his jeans. You flick it on, bringing it to the apex of your thighs, shuddering and sighing as it makes contact. He kneels on the bed next to you, cock bobbing heavily.

Taking his shaft in hand, he starts to work his fist up and down his length, coaxing a pearly bead of precum from his tip. He smears it on the side of your belly before finding his rhythm, eyes fixed on where your dildo disappears into your cunt.

You pump it in inside you desperately, unable to escape the feeling that it doesn’t _fill_ you quite enough.

“It’s not as good as you,” you pant, looking him dead in the eye as you swirl the vibe around your clit.

“You need some real cock? Huh?” he grunts, teeth bared as he fucks his hand.

“I need _yours._ ”

Not needing any clearer an invitation, he moves between your legs, yanking the toy out of you in one swift stroke. You cry out at the sensation, cunt clenching greedily at nothing. Cock thick and hot and heavy, he plunges into you, tearing a moan from your chest.

“Is that what you needed?” he grates out, snapping his hips into yours, the wet slap of skin-on-skin filling the room.

“Always need you..” you say, mouth hanging open.

“You do, don’t you? Even after I gave you a fuckin’ baby, you still need this cock.” His words flood your body. _You’ve got his baby inside you._ He drops his hand to your vibrator, pressing it harder against you, watching you shake underneath him. “You’re a dirty little whore for my cock, aren’t you?”

You whimper in the affirmative as he drives into you, currents of luscious electricity spilling outward from your sensitive clit.

“Look at these big milky titties…” he husks, squeezing one in his palm. “Getting bigger every day.”

It’s finally too much for you to take—his hands on your plump breasts, the rumbling at your clit, his cock splitting you in two—and you come apart under him, body spasming with the force of it. 

“That’s right, mama. Cum for me.” 

Pulling out of your cunt, he pumps his slicked-up cock in his hand, clenching his jaw as ropes of cum splatter against your tummy.

Exhaling shakily, he rubs his cum into the swell of you, watching it smear against the taut skin of your stomach and tits.

It’s still new not to covet every drop of his spend, to push it greedily into your cunt… but this is nice, too. You relish his hands on you, the slippery creaminess like a tonic for your swollen belly.

But it’s still early in the evening.

You know you’ll have much more of his cum soon.

. . . . . .

He hasn’t left your apartment since you came home from your first ultrasound.

You can hardly remember what it felt like to go through your day without him.

He’s there when you wake up, breathing softly, some part of his body always touching yours. He makes sure you’ve had breakfast, that you’ve taken your prenatal vitamins. He kisses your belly before you leave for work. 

You’ve been importing more and more books from Adam’s apartment, crowding both of your nightstands and piling up in the living room. He reads out loud to ‘the two of you’ when you’re having a hard time sleeping.

In the soft, warm light of your bedroom, you lean against his chest as he smoothes cocoa butter on your round belly in slow circles, humming contentedly. 

He spends so much time soothing you—kneading your sore lower back, rubbing your feet, playing with your hair, providing you with a steady supply of snacks—but the actions seem to soothe him, too. Adam, this intensely passionate and independent man, all too frequently a current of obsession and frenetic energy—he’s softened by his rituals and ministrations, relaxing into the space you’ve carved out for him in your life. Before all this, you’d never have pinned him as a caretaker, but he’s become even more than that: your guardian.

The city noise a gentle melody around you, you fall asleep in his arms.

. . . . . . 

When you wake up, his side of the bed— _he has a side now_ —is empty, but the smell of him still lingers like a morning kiss. 

Aaand then your small apartment is overcome with a cacophony of grating and grinding and pulsing. Is that… your blender?

Bleary-eyed, you make your way to the kitchen to find Adam in his briefs at the counter—mango and ginger and spinach and who knows what else spread out in front of him. 

“Here,” he offers a tall glass of greenish liquid. “For you and Peanut.”

“Peanut?” you ask, taking a small, suspicious sip of the smoothie. _Fuck, it’s actually really good._

“Well, we’ve...” he scratches his fingertips softly against your belly, “... we’ve got a tiny little Peanut. Ya know.” 

Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and pull him in close; you press your lips to his, pouring every ounce of your love into him. 

Pushing your ass back against the counter, he gently helps you take a seat on the edge. His hands frame your waist as he kneels down between your spread legs, kissing all over your tummy. 

Your fingers card through his raven hair. 

_Peanut,_ you smile to yourself.

His lips trail up between the valley of your breasts, over your neck and jaw, all the way to your mouth. 

He sucks air through his teeth, cock thickening conspicuously. “You look so good like this.”

“Yeah?” you ask, nipping at his lower lip. 

“Wanna keep you pregnant all the time.”

Your lips quirk up at the corners and you lean back in the slightest to look him in the eyes. 

“You’d wanna have another baby?”

“With you?” he grins. “Fuck yeah. As many as you’ll give me.”

“Really?” 

He nods happily, the soft crinkling in his eyes a stark contrast to the hard _need_ between his thighs.

Sinking your fingertips into the warm flesh of his hips, you pull him into your body, pressing the swell of his cock against your clothed cunt.

“Prove it to me,” you rasp, hooking your thumbs in his waistband and shoving his briefs down. 

His plump, flushed cock taps against your tummy as he tucks your undies to the side, sweeping two fingers through your folds. He lingers at your clit for a mouthwatering moment, sweeping his fingers back and forth over the ridge of you. 

“Already so wet for me…” he rasps, grinning. Fingers slipping lower, he teases and swirls at your entrance, feeling the way you clench greedily. He pushes both digits inside you, pumping softly. “That’s my girl, that’s my little mama.”

You whimper as he tugs his fingers out of you, curling them forward against your spongy front wall. He sucks them into his mouth greedily, tonguing up your tang.

Lining his tip up with your entrance, he plunges into the hot velvet of your cunt, groaning into your open mouth. He drags his cock in and out slowly at first, relishing the way you clamp down on him with every stroke, but he’s anything but patient when it comes to making your heavy tits bounce for him. He pistons his hips faster and faster, one hand on your inner thigh and the other on your back.

“As soon as you can have another kid I’m gonna fill you up with all of my cum, gonna knock you up again,” he grunts, driving into you deep. 

He’s wanted to fuck you on this counter for so long. He’s wanted to fuck you on _his_ counter for so long, but the distinction between _yours_ and _his_ isn’t even relevant anymore. He breathes in your exhales, drinking in your pleasure. You’re even more sensitive now, even more responsive. Your spine arches underneath his hand, and he drags you even closer to him, your big belly pressing up against him.

“You’re gonna—” you gasp as the head of him grates against your g-spot, “—you’re gonna be such a good daddy.” 

He kisses you ferociously, desperate to make you _feel_ how much he loves you, how much he wants to give you all the little ones you’ve always wanted—to be by your side for all of it.

Your eyes flutter closed as his thumb drops to your clit, rolling it in sweet circles as you moan for him. He’s lost in you, lost in the rhythm of your spasming cunt. His balls start to tighten up, heat pulsing through his cock, and he spills himself into you, flooding your channel with spurt after spurt of creamy cum. 

And your body knows just what to do.

Shaking and panting, you fall apart for him. 

“ _I l-love y—_ ” He swallows the rest of your words with his lips, hands on your cheeks.

He doesn’t think he’s seen anything prettier than his cum soaking through your undies and sliding down your thigh as you pad out of the kitchen, smiling over your shoulder at him.

“Shit! Fuck!” you yelp, accidentally kicking over a stack of books on the floor, distracted by Adam.

He giggles, pacing over to take you in his arms. “We’re gonna need a bigger bookcase.”

You look down at your belly and back up at him. “We’re gonna need a bigger apartment.”

**Author's Note:**

> ················································
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr [@jynzandtonic!](jynzandtonic.tumblr.com) ʕ •ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ 
> 
> [Buy me a whiskey?](ko-fi.com/jynzandtonic)
> 
> _No trigger is too small-- **ask me and I'll tag it!**_
> 
> **A brief note on sex and gender:** I'm AFAB nonbinary, so I while I write for fem!reader (anatomy-wise) and I *do* have a soft spot for certain gendered pet names (which are always tagged if applicable), I hope there's enough space for folx at a variety of places on the gender spectrum to feel included in my fics xoxoxo.
> 
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